


Homeward, the new road meanders

by lilith_morgana



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are a long way from Cyrodiil. But Skyrim seems to be their new home, whether they like it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Season unending

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually this take on Skyrim will be a Female Dragonborn/General Tullius romance, but the path is slow and full of dragons.

_  
We two remake our world by naming it  
together, knowing what words mean for us  
_  
(A.S Byatt, Possession)

 

\---

A Nord's last thought should be of home, one of the prisoners tells her on the way to their execution. 

There are so many strange customs but this one thing she can take into her heart as a truth. One should always think of home so that one's soul might fight its way back there; it's a nice, comfortable thought and she tries to conjure up images of it. 

Of home. 

There's a scatter of memories in her at the thought. One of the Imperial City and one of family, one of oaths sworn and regretted and then memories of flight - constant, though occasionally interrupted flight. It's not much, as far as home or comfort goes but she's always suspected she's made for neither. 

“If we could just get someone to hear us out,” the thief had said over and over on their way from prison. “We could explain ourselves.”

She's got half a mind to ask him what in Oblivion they would _say_ , but keeps her mouth shut. 

“Odd place to be wandering around, Imperial. Are you a spy or a whore?” These are the only words Ulfric Stormcloak has ever spoken to her and while it seems unfair to die for _that_ , Aia doubts she will be able to prove her innocence. Even the most devout followers of reason and Imperial Law would wave her claims off as a desperate woman's plea at this point.

_Home_ , she thinks again, anchoring herself in her head where the cold isn't tugging at her skin and where the urgent voices don't reach her with their orders of stepping forward, _did you not hear me the first time?_

She steps forward, her gaze fastened on the soldier – legate, she corrects herself automatically after a closer look – who carries out the general's orders. A Nord, unsurprisingly. There's no mercy in her face, no escape. Aia finds the lack of it vastly more comforting than the soldier holding the list, the man with kind eyes and a voice full of regret, of useless compassion that serves no purpose in this place except igniting false and desperate hopes.

She swallows the last chunk of fear; her breath catches in her throat. 

“Get on with it,” the general mutters and his voice is low, but not low enough for his words to escape her. 

They are a long way from Cyrodiil, this Imperial general overseeing her death and Aia – or at least the filthy, dirty prisoner-shape that she has become as of late - waiting for the executioner's axe to fall. _Kin_ , she thinks with an inward sneer. _Or perhaps not._ Every origin wears thin though neglect and abuse and hers isn’t strong to begin with – she still glances over at the general, as though searching for some trace of something she can remember and hold on to. 

He doesn't even seem to notice her. 

 

*

 

So many days have passed since she last saw the man who stands in front of her again now, the taciturn general who looks her over like she's a ware to be bought at the marketplace and he wants to be absolutely certain the price is right. She fastens her gaze on him, fortifies herself. Soldiers are the currency of war, after all, and he is a true military man. 

“I remember you,” he says eventually. “You were at Helgen. You're the Imperial who weren't on the list.” 

_The renegade from Cyrodiil._

“I'm impressed.” She folds her arms across her chest. She actually _is_ surprised he remembers her at all, though she supposes the happy few who made it out of Helgen alive will never forget a moment of it, not a single unimportant detail lost in the madness of it all. She remembers him, as vividly as she remembers breathing fire and smoke. He looks the same, perhaps a little older, sterner; if she looks closely she thinks she can see a glint of tiredness in his eyes, hidden beneath his composure. It’s a kind of exhaustion she knows well, a kind that does not let itself be concealed, that never rests. The months between then and now have been difficult for everyone. Full of death, red-hot and _chafing_ in her chest. Where it has landed in him, if it has landed somewhere at all, she cannot say. His face doesn't lend itself to examination. 

Aia squares her shoulders, waiting for the general to speak. 

The castle around them has walls that are thick and cold against the mild Heart Fire evening outside, its grey mass oddly comforting now when everything in these provinces seems to fall to pieces. Aia leans against the table beside her where a large map of Skyrim is spread out, the long roads and coastlines sprawling massively in the light of the candles. 

_As the heart of the Empire is solid, all of Tamriel is strong,_ her father reminds her in her head. He had always wanted her to join the Legion. _The knights who protect her very heart._ She hasn't inherited her father's sentimentality but there's something here, she thinks, looking around at the banners and steel. There's something close to faith in the pattern of soldiers milling about these training grounds, something resembling hope in the worn-down phrases.

“Hadvar has mentioned you.” General Tullius nods after what appears to be a moment's consideration. “I also hear you are the Dragonborn.”

They both know the word, although its shape holds a different meaning, buried in other legends and other lands. As a little girl, she used to find the stories of the dragon-born emperor line so reassuring, filling her child-dreams with wild and fiery pride. Here, in the songs sung in every inn by every bard worth his salt, the Dragonborn comes only with a promise of war. 

”If you believe the legends are true, yes.”

He doesn’t, not in his heart; she can tell from his entire posture that he doesn’t believe, doesn’t care, doesn’t make an exception for her on account of some vaguely relevant prophecy about a mortal with the soul of a dragon and for half a heartbeat, Aia is so _grateful_ a smile nearly slips out of her. There may be no escape from fate, but that doesn’t mean she has to go willingly or allow it to drown out everything else. Already there are so many things people will never know about her because of one overwhelming truth: she can slay dragons. In its shadow, she fades away. 

”I can be of use,” she says, hoping he won't ask why. She would have no sensible answer to offer him, merely a string of unattached emotions all ending up here, at her own feet, in this joyless bloody castle. Nothing in this horrible realm is right and at least this, her standing here, isn't wrong. Currently this is all she can muster up as far as devotion goes. She wonders if the glint of apprehension in his eyes means he can spot her lack of dedication or if he merely considers the possibility of a Stormcloak spy in disguise. “I want to help.”

The legate who hasn't taken her eyes off Aia since she walked into the room clears her throat, as though she's about to say something. Aia lifts her gaze. She remembers this woman, too, the harsh voice and the words filled to the brim with duty. A moment passes between them, a flare of recognition. 

Aia has walked into Castle Dour as though she belongs here, she realises now. She had told the guards she had business with the general, without waiting for them to allow or disallow her anything. Such is her habit now, this is what the Nords have taught her. If she has learned one thing during this long, wretched year it's that you should never bother to ask. And frankly, there are few arguments as powerful as a large sword and a steely attitude. 

Even in here, she realises when she looks at General Tullius who nods again. 

“You survived Helgen,” he says in a final tone. “That certainly shows resourcefulness. Speak to Legate Rikke, she will have orders for you.”

“Yes, sir.” 

And there's a little noise in her head, a dull _thump_ , like a circle snapping shut.


	2. Unwavering obedience

He will never get used to the cold.

While Tullius is no stranger to unfashionable living conditions or a harsh climate, there's something about this place that seems to breed its own kind of cold, its own chill that penetrates armour and walls and gets to his head.

The extensive travelling is carved into military life and he can barely picture his existence in any other fashion, even if the long periods away from what he once considered home have lost their charm many years ago. Still, there are a hundred places – including the worst spots of Cyrodiil's jungles – where he'd rather be right now and every single one of them would be more pleasant than this uncivilized tundra.

When he had first arrived, the servants and subordinates had been full of questions about how he preferred his private chamber and he had replied that he didn’t care. The truth is that he can’t see a single way in which this damp, hopelessly oversized old keep could be anything more than it already is or in any way accommodate his wishes. It has already evolved to the highest possible level of comfort – which is highly underwhelming, but then again, so is Skyrim. He had hardly expected a series of swift victories as he was stationed here, nor had he counted on deriving any pleasure from the location but the lack of both is actually more taxing than he would have thought. _The Divines protect us from all the things to which we can become accustomed._

”Good morning, sir,” one of the maids - Gerd, he names her in his head, or possibly Greta - says breathlessly the moment he steps into the room. He greets her silently and takes a seat by the desk. He always breaks the fast in here, wanting to begin his work as soon as possible – one of those details of his behavioural pattern the soldiers find odd, he knows. It makes him question the competence of his predecessor as well, though he isn't about to say that out loud.

The maid returns quickly with a tray – bread, fruit, cheese, mead and water – and puts it down beside his pile of paperwork. When he shifts in his seat she freezes, mouth slightly open, before backing away. She has a nervous air about her – as though she suspects he's going to hit her or yell at her at any given moment - that Tullius finds immensely grating. He suppresses a complaint, however, as he's not overly eager to deal with the consequences.

He has consequences in abundance as it is.

Elenwen is still not convinced he isn't somewhat personally involved in the chaos during her reception at the embassy and her ever-present gaze hasn't turned away recently. If she could, Tullius thinks with a frustrated grimace, she'd move into the castle to supervise his every move. Damned elves. As if the Legion hasn't got enough on their plate in this country even without their meddling. To worsen the situation, he's also had reports of Thalmor Justiciars being attacked in the countryside – unprovoked, according to his sources, though he's is willing to bet that they hadn't exactly gone out of their way to avoid bloodshed. The Thalmor rarely do.

He grabs a slice of cheese and eats it slowly, looking over some new letters that arrived yesterday. It's the usual things: a few requests for relocations and reinforcements, reports from his legates and a letter from Cyrodiil reminding him yet again that he cannot receive any further aid in this conflict.

 _I cannot understand why they would fail to see the urgency in our situation,_ Rikke has said time and time again.

And of course _she_ can't.

Despite the grim reality of it all - Skyrim being one of the few regions that have not yet fallen under the brute force of the Aldmeri Dominion - this is neither the Empire’s most pressing matter nor is it reserved for her most prominent generals. He is well aware of that. In the never-ending flow of young men and women eager to prove their worth – or their remarkable talent for brown-nosing and crowd-pleasing – Tullius no longer stands out. He has begun to wonder if he ever did.

The gilded halls of the Imperial City needs politicians and diplomats, now more than ever. Men who converse well and women who thread smoothly in a room full of assassins. Men like Tullius – too blunt, too impatient, too damn _old_ – are sent out to protect and promote a declining empire to a nation of honour-bound savages. With no reinforcements and, naturally, with the Thalmor breathing down his neck. It's not that he - or the Emperor for that matter - doubts his competence, it's just that the circumstances are changing. _Tamriel_ is changing - and not for the better. Evolve and adapt, cut the losses and survive. _You ought to remember that some compromises are in fact victories, Tullius._ He shakes his head, returning to today's tasks.

Jarl Balgruuf continues to refuse both Ulfric's claim and the Empire's protection, the latest report on his desk tells him in Rikke’s impeccable hand-writing.

Nothing could surprise him less.

Around midday, Rikke arrives in person with more news of the situations with the uncooperative jarls and Tullius feels a throbbing headache form itself along his temples and his jaw; pacing the floor of his war room, he clenches and unclenches his sword hand, not looking at the map or at his second in command. He feels caged here, he realises. Trapped and cornered like the Imperial dog the inane citizens think he is. _I am no diplomat,_ he had reminded the Emperor, shuffled this thoughts and emotions like a shield around his irritation.

 _No,_ the Emperor replies silkily in his head. _But I know that you will succeed, Tullius, or die trying._

Rikke, despite all their differences, is at least a fresh breath of air in this murky old place. Damn good soldier, an even better leader of the legionnaires. She's no diplomat either but she reads the battlefield, however it appears, with her sharp gaze and holds her tongue when it's required. 

They argue for a while like they always do, before Tullius gives her new orders for the political situation and then, when he thinks they are finished and he will be allowed a moment's privacy and a hot meal, he notices that she hesitates half-way out of the room.

“Yes?” he asks, impatiently.

“General, about this crown-”

If it's not the Dragonborn who can talk to ancient, extinct dragons it's some sort of Nord legend buried underground. He stifles a groan. This is a whole nation _obsessed_ with the past. So obsessed in fact that they cannot see the obvious flaws in their analysis of the present situation, he thinks, giving his legate a sharp glance.

She's no fool. At least he can put his trust in that, in _her._ If she believes that Ulfric's lapdogs are gaining an advantage through this ridiculous quest, they probably are.

“Go, then,” he says, and she looks momentarily surprised to get a concession after countless of conversations spent discussion the same thing. “But if this turns out to be a waste of time and soldiers, I'm holding you personally responsible.”

It's faint threat, of course, since they are both aware that he's the one who has to report back, explaining why he's wasted the lives of perfectly good soldiers hunting down a piece of mythical Nord scrap metal. But Rikke's pride appears to be wounded enough, she's straightening up as she accepts his answer.

“It won't be a waste, sir.” She emphasizes every word; that's how he can tell she's angry with him and will do her utmost to succeed in such a way that it leaves no room for complaints.

“Bring the new auxiliary,” he adds. He will have to keep that one close - dragon's soul or not, she might very well be much more trouble than she's worth and he's not taking any unnecessary risks.

Damn, if he isn't beginning to sound like Jarl Balgruuf.

 

 

*

 

Three days later, the auxiliary stands in front of him, bloodied and dirty.

“Here's your crown, sir.” She unceremoniously unwraps the fabric it has been covered in and holds it out for him to see before she places it on the table.

“Good job.” Tullius leans forward to get a better view in the faint light of the room. It's getting late, even for him; the candles are guttering in their holders. “Did you run into any trouble?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle.”

“I wasn't referring to you,” he says, harsher than he had intended. “You are clearly well. What about the others?”

For a second she looks as rebuked as Rikke had as he gave his permission to go hunting for the crown and when she speaks, her voice is cool. “We lost a few men. I hope it was worth it.”

Tullius folds his arms across his chest, observing her. “That is not for you to decide, soldier.”

If half the stories they tell about her are true, she has certainly led a life where the decision for everything are hers alone, he knows. If there's some scrap of reality behind the tall tales the bards swap in the Winking Skeever, tales carried over to the barracks where restless soldiers polish and rewrite them, the woman who just handed him her latest exploit is no stranger to carrying responsibilities.

She looks like she's about to say something; her mouth opens and closes again and before she has time to speak, they are interrupted by a thin, familiar voice in the doorway.

“General, sir.” The nervous maid hurries in to place two large tankards of mead in front of them on the table; he is about to say that he hasn't asked for anything beyond being left alone with his work but instead the auxiliary nods in his place and offers the maid a pleasant smile.

“She's skittish like a deer,” he mutters when they're unaccompanied again.

The auxiliary sits down, dropping her shield on the stone floor and removing her gauntlets. “Can't possibly imagine why, sir.”

He snorts and takes a swig of his mead. The woman opposite him does the same; she appears to relax in her seat as she puts down the mead again.

 _Traveller,_ she calls herself. It seems a pointless disguise for such an accomplished and exemplary sellsword. Wherever the aversion for titles comes from, it's strong in her and he hasn't got the interest nor the patience to delve into the matter. But unlike most recruits she's somewhat of a mystery, still.

She has the look of a reasonably well-bred Imperial citizen, an appearance only slightly undone by the hint of something wild in her eyes, something untamed in the way she moves. Yes, he thinks, _untamed_ is the correct word. There's a strong streak of irreverence in her, an oddity that strikes a chord somehow. He would have polished those edges, had she come to him a few years ago, back when she was still young enough to be susceptible to that kind of change. He is certain she wouldn't have been better for it, but that's the way of all military training. Reshaping the flaws, rubbing off the stains.

She's not a soldier. Tullius had spotted it the very moment she returned after having cleared out a fort Rikke had tasked her with reclaiming. She's the kind of fighter that might occasionally win a war, the sort of champion that can turn the tables and raise a wave of support, not through meticulous work behind the scenes but by pragmatism, skill and a determination bordering on madness.

Perhaps the Imperial Legion will benefit from not having recruited her sooner.

“The Stormcloaks were there when we arrived,” she says, giving him a long glance. “But they weren't expecting company.”

He nods. “They tend to act like they aren't expecting opposition, regardless of if they're breaking into a tomb or killing their high king. It gives us an advantage.”

They're silent for a while. Tullius studies the relic she's brought and the auxiliary is looking at the books on the table, letting one hand run over the cover of Mixed Unit Tactics. There's the introverted – and somewhat unexpected - passion of a scholar in her touch, in her gaze as she forces it up again, to meet his own.

“You know,” she says suddenly. “For a long time I tried to argue my way out of conflicts here. Then I won my first brawl.”

When he looks at her, she's grinning. A quick flash of a smile, lighting up her face and it's gone as suddenly as it appeared, but something passes between them because of it. Familiarity, he thinks. Always that soldier-like longing for familiarity, for all the rhythms you just know, no-question _know_. Words and phrases and sounds that don't have to be explained.

“Thank you for that brilliant tactical advice.”

She nods and drinks the rest of her mead quickly, likely in a hurry to get out of here. He can't blame her. He hates this bloody castle.

“What are my orders, sir?” she asks, putting down her tankard on the table and getting to her feet in one swift move.

“Return tomorrow and I will have a letter for you.” Tullius nearly regrets the words as he speaks them but there is no one else he can send. And she would have little to gain and much to lose by double-crossing them at this point when she's already let the Stormcloaks know which side she is on. At least this is the conclusion he reaches in his own mind, shutting out the possibilities of anything else. They just need to get this thing quelled and over with and move on to the much more pressing matter of the Thalmor demands and various trespasses. _They won't just fall in line behind you, sir,_ Rikke reminds him in his head. _They are Nords._

And of course no true Nord would do anything sensible.

“Very well,” the auxiliary says and he feels a flood of absurd gratefulness directed towards her for not being a native of this bloody country. No matter what he tells his legates, having to recruit locals have been a minor set-back for the Legion.

When she wipes her mouth he spots a gash, still bleeding a little, on the back of her hand. She catches him looking at it and makes a small grimace.

“Poisoned arrow. It went all the way through.” She makes it sound like a bee sting and for the first time he sees something of Rikke in her. _I have a good feeling about her, sir,_ she had said when the Dragonborn walked out of their war room for the first time. Tullius is almost willing to believe her instincts this time. If they are going to allow themselves good feelings about recruits, this one seems their best bet.

“You should have that tended to,” he says, emptying his own tankard. “Speak to the Quartermaster if you're out of supplies.”

She nods before she slips out of the room and leaves him alone again. On the table the rusty crown glows dully in the dusk, a quiet sort of glamour surrounding it. A bloody _crown._ The lives of a few soldiers for this archaic symbol. Perhaps it will vex Ulfric's rebels enough to distract them from the fighting but Tullius holds no particularly great hopes for it to happen.

He leans back in his chair and watches the candles burn out entirely before he rises and retreats to his own chamber, taking the crown with him.


	3. The art of blocking

It's late when she enters Castle Dour to deliver the message from the Greybeards - too late, she thinks until the general greets her. He sits by the small window in what Aia presumes is meant to substitute for a drawing room. There are maps on the table in front of him, war maps with harsh lines and flags dividing their world into small, understandable fractions. Blue for the Stormcloaks, red for the Empire. She has always enjoyed the simplicity of maps and wonders if he does too, if they make Tamriel unfold in his mind, decoded like a language one has learned by heart. 

“Auxiliary.” He barely looks up; it's as though her unannounced late-night arrivals have merged with this castle's rhythms by now, surrendered to her habits. 

“General.”

She takes a seat, feeling the tiredness she usually manages to keep at bay return with full force when she relaxes, even if it’s only temporary, only something as simple as sitting down. She’s wound tight as a mean for survival, she knows, everything in her wrapped hard around something else, holding her upright. And that fear of suddenly _crumbling_. 

General Tullius observes her for a moment, as though he’s waiting for her to speak. When she doesn’t, he leans forward in his chair and adjusts his position so they’re facing each other. _You don’t want to disappoint the general, trust me_ , the soldiers of the keep say, voices hushed-up and tense, as if sharing terrible secrets. But they’re not truly afraid of him. Aia knows how fear sounds, its shape a mass at the back of the throat, a shivering, stifled cry. 

“How did Jarl Balgruuf respond?” he asks.

She folds her arms across her chest, wincing as an elbow touches a half-forgotten bruise. 

And then she explains to him everything that has happened since she left Castle Dour a fortnight ago. 

Her words cross between the long roads and the hurried conversations, threads quickly between that filthy old inn where she was the only night guest and felt _scared_ , for the first time in years, to be there all alone, as though recent events have tied her to a cause and therefore made her vulnerable. She tells him about the jarls, about a remarkable bow she had found in an abandoned camp and brought with her to Solitude; she leaves out the part where she enraged a group of Stormcloak soldiers and was left with no choice but to kill her way out of their camp. There is no need to account for all the death, she'd decided long ago, washing blood off her hands in a brook and it's a promise she intends to keep. 

”I need your help,” she says because at the end of everything, this is what it comes down to. 

_No, it isn’t_ , a voice reminds her softly. _It comes down to you, Dovahkiin._ It’s a shock every time to even think it. 

The general rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I wasn't sent to Skyrim to fight dragons,” he points out, but with less passion and vehemence than she had expected. 

“I wasn’t, either.” 

He looks at her, straight at her, as he raises an eyebrow. His face seems more familiar to her in candlelight than it does during the day, which is decidedly odd. It's so composed, she thinks, wondering if the lines and cracks in it are more visible in broad daylight. It’s a confident face, stern and harsh and determined. 

She, too, is someone who can get things done, they say and Aia wonders if she resembles him, if that is how the others see her. She isn't sure if it would be a blessing or a curse or merely yet another welcome disguise to wear armour like his. 

“I want a swift end to this nonsense,” General Tullius says. “The only ones who benefit from a drawn-out conflict are the Thalmor. This rebellion has already gone on for too long.”

“I know.” She does and it's a hard edge in her thoughts, the knowledge like a stab of worry in her mind. “You're right. And I'm not asking you to believe in prophecies or myths; I don't even know if I believe it myself, and I've seen it with my own eyes. But dragons are returning. I _have_ to handle that because nobody else can.”  
General Tullius looks at the maps again, his face averted and his body absolutely still; his hands rest on his thighs and his lips are pressed together. He seems to be turning the decision over in his head – or possibly plotting the best course to finally get her executed. 

“The best time to negotiate is from a position of strength,” she adds, thinking _you're a man of reason_ ; the words are running through her mind like a prayer, more insistent with every moment that passes, with every heartbeat. It is odd to be here, to place a trust in him that she isn't certain he has deserved in the first place. This castle reminds her of how much faith she has put in General Tullius and his agreement to meet with them, the traitors that try to wreck his Empire apart. _Their_ Empire. She hasn't thought of it like that in many years but perhaps a part of her has never truly stopped. 

“Fair enough,” he concedes eventually. 

She tries to conceal her surprise but it seeps out of her before she gathers hold of herself. 

“You will accompany me to High Hrothgar then?”

“Yes.” His response is more of a sigh than a word. “Yes. Fine. I will come to this Greybeard council. For all the good it will do.”

A darker storm than the civil war stands before them, darker than anything she can put into words and more encompassing than any Imperial general can fathom – even this one, she thinks and looks at him again. This one who always wins. 

“Thank you,” she says and means it, desperately. “The Empire will not have to regret this, I _swear_ it.”

General Tullius rises to his feet and is already halfway across the room as he responds. His voice is muffled by the distance but she hears its every rise and fall, each word strangely heavy against her heart.

“Don't make promises you can't keep, soldier.”

 

 

 

“You trained as a soldier?” Hadvar's voice, strained from the practice, cuts through the noise of the training grounds. “Before this, I mean?”

Most days, they're the first soldiers to enter and the last soldiers to leave these grounds, the two of them existing somewhere outside the smattering of exasperated orders shouted by Captain Aldis. Hadvar already has the general's approval and Aia has no place in the regular ranks to begin with but they're both dutiful, both at a loss for what to do to prepare beside training, _improving._

“No.” Aia sheaths her sword, wiping sweat off her forehead. After a moment's consideration she corrects herself. “Well, my father trained me.”

_Endlessly_ , she thinks. Her skin red and marred, the stench of metal never quite leaving her palms and fingers; she had always feared she'd mark the books in the library with her iron-hands. She had never paid attention, always wanted something else from him, something different. It is only now, with his face as a fading ghost at the back of her mind that she understand that he had truly given her all he had to give. 

She rubs a sore spot on her arm where Hadvar had hit her before she got her shield up. “But mostly I've taught myself.”

Hadvar grins at her, with broad white teeth. “What, you just picked up a sword and started fighting?” 

“Something like that.”

“I'm not surprised.” There's a curious expression on his face, as though she's a riddle he's trying to figure out by observing her long enough. “You're a tough one, you know that? I could tell the first time I saw you.” 

Aia shrugs. Her first memory of him is coloured by steel and frost, by bare feet shuffling over icy ground and that lump of terror, threatening to choke her with every breath. The rebels had screamed and cursed, the thief had tried to fight his way out of the ambush even as the Legionnaires blocked every path with swords and shields. Aia had surrendered with a furious snarl as a soldier grabbed her pack and a captain had put his armoured arm around her, pulling her away from everything else. 

It had been such a foolish, ill-advised plan in the first place, she had almost _deserved_ that ambush. 

“Are you coming to the Winking Skeever tonight?” he asks when she doesn't speak for a while. 

She hunches down on the ground, yanking out the tip of an arrow that's been wedged into the wood of her practice shield. Hadvar stands close to her, blocking the scant light from torches on the wall. She looks up and shakes her head. Every night he asks the same question and every night she gives the same reply. She leaves the drunkards and the lovers to their revels without regret – and Lisette prefers when Hadvar comes alone at any rate, though Aia is fairly certain her fellow soldier hasn't _quite_ grasped that yet. 

This is what she must be doing tonight, she thinks when he eventually leaves and she picks up her weapons. A soft rain rattles against her shield as she raises it once again, moving into position to ready herself for her imagined battle. This is what she does until her body is so sore it refuses to carry out one more blow or take her through one more feint. This and only this. 

The fact that she lacks the discipline and training of a legionnaire is hardly a novelty but lately it has begun to agitate her so badly she can't seem to look past it. 

_It's too much for you too handle, Dovahkiin._ Her grip around the sword hilt tightens as the takes a deep breath and forces herself to repeat the patterns in the instruction books she's been reading lately, mirroring their synchronous lines and swirls. Too much at stake and she can't ignore the reality or its massive sprawling weight, placed firmly on her shoulders. 

She doesn't know how long she remains there in the drizzle but she practises until the last light of the dusk merges with the black of night and every shape among the shadows is rendered invisible. Everyone except for General Tullius who stands a few feet away from her, a solid figure in the darkness. Aia doesn't know how long he has been out there or if he has been watching. It feels strangely unsettling to think he has been witness to her struggle, as though it changes something between them, shifts their positions in the unspoken power balance. 

Their eyes meet and for a second she imagines she can see a trace she recognises in his gaze, a shared burden, an unspoken understanding that at least momentarily seems to outweigh the . Like her, the general never seems to sleep. She looks away, frowning. 

“Trying to improve my technique,” she mutters as a response to a question he doesn't pose. 

He nods, a curt and brief gesture. 

“We leave at dawn.”


	4. A dance in fire

Once, many months ago now, she had travelled with Onmund to a cave to gather some ingredients for a long-winded favour someone had asked of her, then later to another cave, for another favour. After that, an understanding formed itself between them, an unspoken word appearing in the middle of her existence: _companion._

She had never _meant_ to. One day he had merely slipped under her carefully arranged protection and detachment and some days later they had found themselves at a crowded inn, ordering mead and swapping stories. A bad idea to begin with and hardly improving as it grew from one day to two - to a long, uninterrupted string of them. He had claimed it was because of the magic, because she is not a mage but would find herself in need of one to wrestle both undead and dragons. _I promise to be your battle maiden._

Of course, he had never even seen a dragon, let alone fought one. Promises are easy to make and simple to keep with your eyes closed but she had not managed to bring herself to tell him that. 

Onmund the Nord mage. Silly and arrogant and a terrible cook; she can still summon the bitter taste of his horker stew to her mouth, still remember the way he'd proudly present his meals as though he was doing her a favour. 

She still doesn't know why she had let him travel with her. 

Perhaps it had been for the nights. 

For those late evenings when it's too dark to continue but not late enough to be overwhelmed by sleep, for the sweaty or too-cold middle-of-the-nights when she wakes entangled in her bedroll and thinks she's being attacked by spiders or having her head severed from her body. That's when it counts having someone – anyone - there. That's when he had counted; that's when she had known why. 

“Tell me how you got that scar?” Onmund had asked her every night they shared, his thumb running up and down the old marking on her right cheek, ritual-like and intrusive in equal measures but she had always let him but never given him an honest answer. It had seemed to her like a fair deal. 

“Its origin is shrouded in the greatest mystery,” she had replied every time because the habits of escape and detachment are so deeply rooted in her that it will take a more forceful man than Onmund to charge through her defences. He had always known that; it had never stopped him from trying. Perhaps his unbroken spirit and faithful confidence had been the real reason why he had been by her side. 

The last night they ever shared she had spent beside him by the fire holding his hand as all warmth left it; guarding him against the wolves she could hear in the distance and the falling snow that had already covered the dragon's bones behind them.

“It was a wolf,” she had told the too-quiet shape, touching her own cheek in a poor mimicry of his way of mapping her out with his hands as the pointless secret escaped her body. “It was a stupid, silly, boring _wolf_.” 

He hadn't been the first casualty of her unwanted, unplanned war. But she had sworn at dawn with his icy hand in her own, that at least he was going to be the last. 

She remains faithful to her oaths; and she travels lightly – words like _stranger_ and _adventurer_ are weightless and promise nothing – in the company of mountains and to the squeaky sound of fresh snow under her boots. She travels erratically and without a clear purpose, to avoid being detected, pulled in, confined. 

Above all, she travels _alone_. 

And now here she is, sharing a carriage with Jarl Elisif who fidgets with a flower in her lap – given to her by one of the soldiers, no doubt. Her hands are small, Aia notices, small and white against the red dress and the yellow flower. 

This is different, she tells herself. This is a necessity. For all of them.

They're travelling in a small group – a few soldiers, a quartermaster whose name always escapes her, Legate Rikke and General Tullius who rides beside their least valued travelling companion – ambassador Elenwen. For a moment, Aia feels a surge of pity for the general who has to listen to the Thalmor emissary, but perhaps he is used to her utterly draining way of balancing threats and insincere pleasantries. 

The Jarl suddenly looks at her, a curious expression on her face. 

“I am going to this meeting because it is required of me,” she says, with the air of someone who isn't stating something that is already obvious.   
_  
Whereas I'm going for the sheer joy of juggling the disparate wills of every military leader in Skyrim._ Aia scratches the back of her head and looks out at their companions again. 

“Yes,” she says levelly, waiting for the jarl to continue. 

“What do you hope to gain by negotiating with the imposter who murdered my husband?” Her tone is mild but there's a trace of disapproval lingering in the spaces between her words. 

Aia looks at the soldiers and horses ahead of them, regretting that she had opted for the carriage as they left Solitude. She's not much of a rider but the afternoon is chilly and the air cuts her lungs to shred and at the very least, a horse is a warm-blooded creature. 

“I need a truce,” she responds. “There's not more to it than that. But I'm certain the general has already explained this to you.”

“He has.” 

The wood that surrounds them groans and creaks; Aia leans back, unused to this passivity of travelling that renders her restless, grows an itch inside her, a frantic rhythm in her blood. 

“Do you trust the general?” Aia asks, giving in to a sudden impulse as the man in question turns his head and looks in their direction, as though overhearing what they're saying even from that distance. 

“I trust he has the Empire's best interest at heart,” the other woman replies, diplomatically. She is thoroughly educated in the art of speech, Aia thinks. _The art of emptying words of all meaning,_ her father used to say. But even her father would occasionally have to admit that a bit of diplomacy can go a long way. 

“Yours as well?” 

The Jarl is silent for a while, looking down at the flower, twirling it between her fingers. When their eyes meet again, there's a depth in them that was not visible before, an edge to her softness that makes her seem older, her words wiser. 

“I'm surrounded by thanes and noblemen,” she says. “They offer me counsel in matters great and small and in turn I help them. And yet I know that no matter how dear some of them are to me, they would not hesitate to take over my throne, should the opportunity present itself. That is the nature of politics and courts.”

Aia nods. “And the general doesn't want your throne.”

“He certainly does not.” Elisif gives a small smile. “Some say he is so focused on the military effort that he forgets the people of Skyrim but the people of Skyrim would be lost without him. He may seem like a ruthless military man, but I have seen his leadership enough to know that he truly cares. And that is why I trust him, Dragonborn.”

It's a good enough reason, but Aia doesn't say that. She doesn't say anything else for a long time, merely watching the landscape they travel through, as though seeing it for the first time. In some aspects, she is. 

It's a new language in her, this sense of belonging, this new pattern in her thoughts and she cannot say if the little swirl of anxiety in the pit of her stomach is born out of hope or dread, or both at once. 

 

*

 

Evening has long since begun its slow creep when they stop to make camp for the night. 

Tullius is glad to get off the horse and stretch his legs, the cold air and the dull weariness in his muscles give him a headache and beside him, Rikke looks irritable as well. They've grown used to the comforts of their horrible castle, such as they are. _Who would have thought?_ He wonders briefly how the young jarl is faring – she is equal parts gentle and hardy, that one. Sturdy as the land that has shaped her and brittle as a noble, raised to entertain and be entertained. He's never been fond of the nobles in the Imperial City - they're giving too much of a fuss about everything - but they're still vastly more tolerable than the Nords. Courtly politics is despicable even without their bloody sense of honour. 

After they have taken their supper and darkness has fallen completely around them, Tullius finds himself by the fire, looking over a few letters with intel from the Empire's officers. His body is still sore, longing for rest or a good battle, preferably in that order. 

“By the Nine Divines,” Rikke mumbles to herself as she turns the page in her book. She's sitting cross-legged on the ground, absent-mindedly eating something that smells of sugar - she has a weakness for boiled crème treats, he knows from countless of nights just like this one. Overly sweet foods and sentimental Nord mythology he thinks, casting his gaze in a different direction, to the auxiliary who stands a little outside their camp, watching the skies with her arms crossed and her armour still half-way on. The Orcish, elaborately crafted metal glitters in the moonlight.

“Legate,” Tullius reminds her quietly. He means nothing by it, thinks nothing of it, but the remarks fall out of him like breaths. The discipline of a military man, he thinks with an inward sneer. An instrument of the Emperor's will, body, soul and mind regardless of how much he would like to spit on the White-Gold Concordat. 

Rikke gives him a searching glance, noticing where he has focused his attention. He hears the rustle of the pages in her old tome as she snaps it shut and shifts position. 

“You still uncertain about her, sir?” 

“No,” he says, though he doesn't know if that's the truth or merely a convenient answer tonight. The auxiliary stands absolutely still, as if listening for some unheard sound in the air around them. “I'm uncertain about this damn meeting.”

Rikke sighs. “I know. But you're going to have to be the reasonable one there, sir.”

That's what I'm afraid of, he thinks, and as if overhearing his thoughts the legate gives him that look he has come to know – and dislike – over the past year. A look that teeters on the edge of doubt, very unlike the young girl he once met in Bruma. 

As a fresh recruit she had been wide-eyed and gangly with a stubborn jut to her jaw, an indomitable fire in her eyes. Proud, he remembers. _Strong_. She had impressed him instantly by standing out among mediocrity and foolishness and he had asked for her as he returned to the Imperial City, offering her a career in the Fourth Legion. Ever since, he's had the distinct impression he had saved her from something, though she has never said what sort of fate his orders had prevented and he would never ask. There had been unshakeable trust between them and that was all that ever needed to be defined. 

Of course, that was before the Empire nearly got crushed and narrowly escaped utter annihilation by pretending to bow before terms that violate their whole bloody culture. It has changed everything, even their trust. It has changed the expression on her face, the edges of her words. 

There are more reasons to doubt him these days, he supposes. 

“I'm not a Nord,” he says, his tone sharper than necessary. “I can control my sword hand.”

_“General.”_

Tullius refrains from saying anything else and eventually Rikke relaxes beside him, returning to the book in her lap. He remains where he is as well, going over the possible outcomes of the pointless Greybeard gathering in his head while wishing every hermit monk and rebel leader to Oblivion. 

And he sleeps badly that night, easily stirred by both dreams and noises that slip into his unconscious mind the way they often do. 

The following morning, the dragon attacks. 

They're barely awake - save the two terrified soldiers who have kept watch – and stumbling their way out of their bedrolls as the stench of fire and the oddly familiar cry of the dragon fills their surrounding. Tullius hooks the last pieces of his armour together when the auxiliary runs into the camp.

“No one follows me,” she says, urgently as she hurries past him. She's still only wearing leather trousers and a tunic, he notices, and her hair is unkempt and bushy, cascading around her face and down over her shoulders. “You must see to that.”

He frowns, annoyed with the unexpected interruption and his own lack of authority in this matter. “I was not aware you were giving orders, soldier.”

For a second, the auxiliary looks like she's going to draw her sword to make a point – he's fairly certain she would win in a duel or the kind of _brawl_ these Nords favour and isn't particularly willing to test this hypothesis - but instead she settles for closing in on him, her eyes fiery and half-mad with adrenaline. Even so, she keeps her voice down, careful not to wreck the line of command in front of anyone else. 

“I was not aware you know how to slay dragons, _sir_ ,” she tells him, with forced calm. 

He can't argue with that logic so he doesn't. Instead he takes her words and makes them his own, passing on the orders to the others to remain in the background and stay out of trouble. Ordinarily this is not something his legionnaires will do gladly, but he suspects that this is a situation far from the ordinary. Damn _dragons_. Tullius thinks of Helgen, of burnt flesh and ashes, soldiers and civilians everywhere, screaming to each other. He had retreated quickly back then, seen no reason to prevail nor any possibility to defeat the beast and even so, even if they had dropped all other missives but one - to get out of there – they had lost almost everyone. Nearly all of the soldiers and every bloody prisoner. It had seemed too convenient then and it seems too convenient now, he thinks, watching the sky turn red with blood and fire around them. 

And almost as quickly as it happened, just like that day when the rebellion should have been quelled, the attack has passed. 

“Is anyone injured?” Rikke shouts over the turmoil, her sword still drawn as she runs towards the camp. Around them, the air trembles with a shout – a _th'um_ as these Nords would probably insist on calling it – that seems to have ripped something apart and forced it back together again.

“No casualties, ma'am.” The legionnaires seem braver now when their bravery is no longer needed. Mere boys, the lot of them, fresh from the latest recruiting efforts in Solitude. Tullius sighs to himself and makes a mental note to berate Captain Aidis for only presenting fools and children to him. 

“Take care of this mess,” he tells them sharply as he strides forward with the thunderous sound of battle still ringing in his ears. “We leave shortly.”

The whole surrounding still appears to be in disarray when the shout subsides, as though the auxiliary has called up earth and winds to aid her. Perhaps she has. She stands crouched over a dead dragon several feet away, her breath dancing like white puffs of smoke in the air. _Dragonborn._ It's the first time his thoughts give her that name, branding her with that particular word. A myth is merely a lie dressed in fanciful clothes, but there is no doubt that she is something extraordinary even without the old stories. 

When he approaches her shape that is drawn against the burning, glowing corpse of the dragon she looks up, though her gaze is slightly clouded, as though her focus, her core, is elsewhere. He stops, observing her with a rare thread of curiosity running through his mind. 

She's an imposing, almost _terrifying_ sight where she stands in the middle of this slowly burning fire that floods straight into her and which she endures it without blinking. There's a glowing membrane of dust or light around her body and Tullius finds that he cannot turn away his gaze. 

“Impressive,” he says, and he means it completely. 

She looks down, her body still somewhat bent over the scene of battle; the dropped shield on the ground distorts her reflection, its surface is drenched in blood. He leans down to pick it up. When she takes it from him her bare, bloodied hand brushes against his gloved one and she grimaces a little but he notices a brief hint of smile there, buried underneath the grime and the dirt. 

“I'll need a moment to wash up.” She frowns as she looks down at herself, as if this is the first time she's noticed that she's not wearing her armour and that her clothes are entirely ruined. “If we can delay departure for an hour or so?”

Tullius nods, thinking that his consent runs far deeper than her question, just like this entire scene seems to unearth matters far beyond this petty rebellion and his own tired war.


	5. The men of violence

It's always oddly peaceful in the centre of a storm. 

High Hrothgar might not be much of a centre of anything save snow and solitude, but somehow they have made it a seat of something, at least for the time being. Tullius still doubts the wisdom of agreeing to come here. And the Greybeards who greet them are as detached and tight-lipped as one can expect from a group of monks devoting their time to and wasting their talent on hiding from the reality of war. 

He has read about this place – in the endless tomes of history that he's forcing himself to study once in a while not to be entirely dependant on Rikke for the cultural context. Rikke who's looking around at this ancient hiding place with reverence written across her face and for a moment, she seems as alien to him as this cluster of mute mages and their old beliefs. 

“I'm glad I finally got to see this place,” she tells the auxiliary as they step inside the Council Room and the old fortress seems to close in on them like the walls of a cage. 

The auxiliary smiles briefly in response to that, muttering something about how the excitement certainly vanishes when you have to return for the tenth time. Tullius himself is mostly relieved that the tiresome walk up here – a _pilgrimage_ , Rikke had claimed – is over for the time being. He doesn't particularly look forward to descending all those stairs again. 

“This will be interesting,” Elenwen says in a low and poignant tone, stepping so close to him that he can feel her breath on his skin. “Talking peace with Ulfric Stormcloak.”

“Your role is to observe,” Tullius retorts, widening the gap between them. _We are not allies in this._

The expression on her face is unreadable but he imagines that he can see a slight hint of irritation in her eyes. “You have stated that already, general. My memory still serves me well.”

_Ever the peacemaker,_ he thinks, stifling a sigh. 

Tullius stands by his chair like the rest of them, waiting for the auxiliary - the Dragonborn - to take her seat. He watches her observe everyone, her gaze sweeping across the room as though she's trying to make a last minute strategy for how to play this. She appears calm, though he wonders if she truly is. Many years ago when he had found himself in his first military negotiation, he had silently chanted whatever phrases of the Imperial Law that he could recollect from his studies, turning them over and over again in his head as the old men and women around him flocked like animals on the verge of tearing each other apart. He’s always preferred battle strategy. It has a harsh, quick rhythm that suits him, a beat that merges with his own. 

When he looks at the auxiliary in the middle of the room - a solitary player in this strategic game of war and conquest - he can still see her in his mind, battered and bloodied, absorbing the soul of a dead dragon. It must vex Ulfric to the point of madness not to have this undeniable asset on his side. So far she has shown no proof of a strategic or political mind but she wields a rare sort of power among these traitors and rebels. _The men of violence,_ Tullius had overheard the hermits saying before, meaning all of them, he supposes. _They are not yet tired of war._

He had never wanted a bloody war to begin with, nor does he derive any pleasure from fighting his own people, but he hadn’t said that. Ulfric's head on a plate is what he is going to have – it’s the only thing the truly wants from this frozen lands. Not the countless dead bodies that will frame the beheading and litter the path to their restoration of order.

It should never have been allowed to come to this unseemly situation, he knows, there is no proper victory to be had after a civil war. 

A nation can survive almost anything – any war, any threat, and any catastrophe – except for treason from within. This rebellion, in all its misguided, inane lack of glory rots the soul of the Empire. If they hadn't gone and murdered their High King, if they hadn't been so bloody stupid, so blatantly provocative, the Aldmeri Dominion might have been able to look elsewhere for a while longer, saving them all the trouble of enforcing the terms of the concordat. Tullius couldn't care less what gods these Nords pray to or how their rituals are performed; he looks the other way like any Imperial would. The diversity of the Heartland, he thinks as he looks at Ulfric. Imperial law, peace and prosperity. That is the Empire he is sworn to defend and has fought for for more than half his life. 

Of course, this is also the Empire that is falling to pieces and he feels frustratingly old trying to mend them, as if wishing himself back to a different time, a different life for them all. 

He leans forward in his seat, suppressing the urge to tell everyone around the table to shut up.   
To the Emperor this is merely a side show, yet Tullius has the distinct impression that the Thalmor – and not just the ambassador sitting by his side now – are observing them right here, right now, plotting their own course based on moves and mistakes made by the humans present at this council. 

The auxiliary has certainly shown some nerve, requesting it. 

She continues to impress him as the negotiation finally starts after unnecessary pomp and procedure from both the Nords and the monks. While Jarl Elisif betrays her own youth and inexperience when the rebels demand lands in return for the brittle truce, the auxiliary seems to have anticipated the move and is ready to work with him to come to an acceptable conclusion. The rebels want Markarth. It is hardly surprising to anyone with historical or political knowledge and Tullius decides to accept, absurd as it is to have to concede to a blind fool with dreams of glory and with no talent for either warfare or politics. If they are going to have a truce, the Empire must stand above pettiness. No one will be able to accuse him of not coming here in good faith; he will make sure of it. 

“This is outrageous, sir!” Elisif's eyes are wide and furious; he leans towards her, contemplating placing a hand on her arm to calm her but decides not to. 

“I told you I would handle this,” he says under his breath. A lot of the nobles in Solitude think the young jarl's gifts are solely physical, he knows, but he's never fully agreed. While she is far from the kind of stoic warrior the Nords favour so much, she's got a clear mind and a strong sense of justice and fairness. There are plenty of jarls that are faring worse, as far as he's concerned. He would, however, appreciate it if she could shut up more easily. 

“I cannot allow you to give up territory to these murderers,” she hisses back, a hint of a tremble in her voice. 

“Jarl Elisif.” Rikke's tone is the same one that carries out orders but now it's coloured by the convincing gentleness that she uses so masterfully. Tullius knows precious few people that can be as persuasive as his legate. “Let the General take care of the negotiations.”

“Enough with this nonsense!” Tullius inhales slowly, turning to the auxiliary again. “You called this council. Now you tell me, what do you consider a fair trade for Markarth?” 

She leans back, folding her arms across her chest. Everyone in the room is looking intently at her but her eyes are on him, and he's sensing her undivided attention like a force in the air between them. I'm no politician, she had said the previous night. You will have to help me out. Tullius is hardly a politician either but somehow he always finds himself in these uncomfortable positions anyway. 

“Riften,” she says eventually; she keeps her gaze locked with his own, her current of thoughts almost inside his own head. 

Tullius nods, allowing his consent to mask his surprise at her deft analysis of the situation. Riften is a good choice, certainly the best one at present. It's near the border, easy to resupply and strategically important during a civil war, as it cuts off a great deal of land to the enemy troops. 

“That will do,” he says, observing the anger that grows among the men on the opposite side of the table. It's a thick, furious ripple in the air, a wave of discontent. “For the time being.”

_Well done, soldier._ And as though she's heard him, she inclines her head ever so slightly, a barely visible gesture of something that seems a shade warmer than her usual courteous respect. 

 

*

 

In broad daylight she never fears anything. 

Where the rays of sunlight shine through every surface and every pattern, she sees her fate so clearly and knows what she must do. Even now, with the new plan that seems hurried and uncertain and far from plausible, she can feel it like a breath in her lungs and a word on her lips. 

The dark is different, she thinks as they make their first stop on the way back from High Hrothgar. The dark holds too many shadows and no clear angles, it wrecks every thought until it resembles a doubt and Aia is tired of uncertainty. 

She sits by the fire; the moonlight bobs and glitters in the snow and she finds herself wondering – of all the strange things to wonder – what the weather is like in the Imperial City. She remembers the smell of rain there, the scent of the sun warming up the crowded marketplace and bringing the salty, musky smell of sweat to the inns and pubs at night. There is a small path in the Market District, running behind Merchant's Inn and a couple of other buildings and there's nothing special about it, but it's her path. She's walked on it in rain and sunshine, felt the wind raise her hair up and prickle her bare neck; she has walked with Mother's rhymes and songs in her ear and a taste of summer in her mouth. 

_You are too fond of brooding,_ her father snaps in her head, disrupting the flurry of memories. 

He might be right, she can give him that much. She had learned from the best, after all, growing from girl to woman in the shadow of her father's introverted self-loathing and grief, his endless collection of failures. Aia cradles a tankard of mead in her hands, missing Cyrodiil a little more for every sip of this particularly foul brew. This shit ought to be illegal. 

“No need to drink that.” The general's voice behind her startles her momentarily; he places a bottle of Alto Wine on the ground before he, too, takes a seat by the fire. “It could have gone worse today. You did well for someone who hates politics.” 

She glances sideways at him, still feeling the pressure from the Greybeard council in every part of her body, like a new tight chain around her. She wants to ask if he feels it too, the strain of it all. He ought to. 

“I'm so damn tired of all the cloak and dagger,” she says instead. The fire hisses as she tips the remains of her half-empty serving of mead a little to close to the flames and reaches for General Tullius's wine. “And politics. I hate politics. Give me an honest, open war.” 

He grunts, a sound caught half-way between a snort and a laugh.

“I can give you that,” he says then and gives her a look that is almost amused even if it's a fleeting sort of amusement, quickly hidden behind the usual closed grimness of his expression. 

“Yes,” she agrees. “I think that's why I'm here.” 

The wine floods into her blood and face, softens her rigid posture. She can feel herself loosen up like a too-tight knot and relents into her own body, making herself more comfortable in her seat. A few months ago she would not have touched either mead or wine in a setting like this one. Too risky, she would have thought. At the back of her mind she remembers the beginning of her journey here and how she had slept sitting up with her armour still on, one hand ever-present around the hilt of her sword through both nightmares and daydreams. It seems like a lifetime ago. 

Skyrim hardens its people, even more so its hated foreigners. 

“I thought it was for the glory and honour of serving the Empire,” General Tullius says dryly, and he might very well be serious but tonight, she feels that he isn't.

“Not the type, sir.” Aia takes a mouthful of wine and lets it linger in her mouth for a moment, savouring the taste. Once, in a different life she used to drink one goblet – the same goblet every time, the last of her mother's belongings – every night by the candlelight in her bedchamber. Even now the taste whispers of books and scrolls, of stolen hours and the wild pleasure of being left to her work. Nothing could reach her while she was buried in those studies, nothing could interrupt her peace. 

He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his own wine. Aia rakes a hand through her hair, wincing as her fingers get stuck among the strands and curls; that's the thing about travelling – you never want to know what you catch along the way. Blood, dirt, bile. _Death._

“Just as well, auxiliary,” the general says eventually. “If you were the type, you would still have little time to bask in the glory of your accomplishments once you return from chasing this dragon. The war doesn't wait for long.”

He makes it sound so banal, she thinks. Chasing a dragon. A game for a child. It's oddly soothing. 

“You think the plan will work then?” 

“I think nothing of the plan. This is up to you.” 

Aia smiles into her wine, catching a reflection of something there, buried deep, as the fire flares up a little. She has grown to like the general's uncompromising view of the world, has come to trust in it like a habit she has no intention of shedding. Somehow, she thinks, it merges with her own. He reminds her in his own way of what she is here to do and how the journey is hers alone – the Legion will await her return, but this path is her own. There is no one to walk it with her. 

“No false hope to offer me?” she asks anyway, twirling her unspoken plea around his features, his gaze, locking it with her own.

General Tullius looks at her for a long time, raising his cup and lowering it again. Eventually, he speaks.

“When you make a decision, stick to it.” He says it in a neutral tone; it is not the answer to her question, but an answer all the same. “Leave the second-guessing to the historians.”

She watches his face lit up by the fire, watches the scattered points of light dance over his features. The general is a stranger here, she thinks. An oddity in this stark, bare land where people make up fairy tales about myth and honour to drape over the cold steel and iron of their measly bargains. He's a man of little faith and much reason and it resounds in her, the way he looks against the backdrop of Skyrim's icy contours. He's a long way from home. 

“Like you do, sir?” 

If there's an unintentional edge of accusation in her words – tracing back to Helgen and beyond, to that freezing camp near the border where she had seen legionnaires putting swords to people's throats for speaking the wrong words – he pretends not to hear it. 

“Yes,” he replies, keeping his eyes on the flames. “Like I do.”

They sit together in silence until the fire vanishes with a quiet gasp and the soldiers relieve each other of the watch. In a few hours, Aia knows, she will part ways with them all and for the first time, it doesn't seem like a fearsome prospect, even in the dark.


	6. The girl with the dragon

_  
You are either the bravest person I've met or the biggest fool._

Irileth's words appears in Aia's mind on the road back to Solitude. It had been a brief stay in Whiterun, almost too brief for her taste. She has come to appreciate the small city and its people in a way that goes beyond strategy and convenience. 

Whiterun is crucial. She had understood it the moment she first met the jarl, the first time she spoke to these proud Nords rooted deep in Skyrim's soil. _If we have Whiterun, we gain a lot of ground,_ General Tullius agrees at the back of her mind. She fills her head with tactics as she rides, lays out maps of holds and borders in her mind to keep herself from thinking about the inevitable course of action that will begin as soon as she returns to Dragonsreach. While it had seemed a good idea at the moment to delay her chase after Alduin, she is beginning to question her own wisdom by the time she can see the scattered houses in Rorikstead light up the darkness of the road. 

In Dragonsreach a dragon - as bound and obedient as a dragon would ever allow himself to be - awaits her return. It seems remarkable that she is asking for a respite despite this very fact. 

There are certain _things_ , she tells herself, certain matters to be settled. She had left everything once before, her entire life unfinished and ripped to pieces and she is not doing it again. 

“Traveller.” A woman walks past her. “There's a room and a warm meal over at Frostfruit Inn.”

Aia nods back. She remembers this woman, remembers talking to her once about something that suddenly seems important to recall. The increasing number of mudcrabs down by the water, perhaps. Or the potato crops. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

The room is cramped and badly isolated but she sleeps well, buried beneath several blankets and with a belly full of broth and bread. She dreams of dragons all night and before dawn has arrived she slips out unnoticed, leaving a large purse of gold on her bed along with a few weapons and a fancy silver necklace she hasn't had time to sell. 

There is little need for possessions in the realms of the impossible. 

 

*

 

The road seems longer than last time. The road home always is, the old saying claims and Aia wonders if that is what has begun to happen, if Solitude has begun to take the shape of home in her heart. 

She grows road-weary more quickly now; it's as if she's finally satiated her ravishing hunger for freedom, out-travelled her desires. It feels as though the vast stretches of land have been branded into her bones so that even if she never travels again, she will carry the memories with her until the day of her death. There's a sense of contentment in that, a certain fulfilment to the wishes of a little girl with a head full of daydreams and impractical wants that seemed so hopeless to ever satisify. 

The first thing she does when the walls of Solitude close behind her, tucking her safely inside, is to visit Angelina Morrard. 

“Hello, dear,” the old woman greets her as usual, and Aia smiles unaffectedly in here even on a day like this. 

“How have you been?”

“Oh, the same. I'm still an old lady who's tired of this war of generals and jarls. And you?” 

“I'm still the Dragonborn,” Aia retorts as she leans over a small cupboard to check the usual shelf for the special healing potions the Morrard family has been making 'for decades, dear'. “But now I'm going to try to fight Alduin.”

Angeline puts a hand over her mouth. “ _Alduin_? The world eater?”

“That's the one.” Aia's fingers close around a large vial that she quickly puts in her satchel along with three others. That is their agreement. She can take anything she wants in return for gold and goods whenever she finds something suitable. The undercurrent of trust in these actions spreads inside her chest; they never speak of it but they both see those ghosts dancing around the outskirts of their boundaries and definitions. The ghost of a daughter - _a fighter like you, always beating up other children but her heart was in the right place_ \- and of parents long lost and never properly missed. 

“Just come back, will you promise me to do that?” The old woman shakes her head, her mouth a thin, shivering line before she brazes herself, clearing her throat. “See that you return.”

And for a second, there's something so gentle slipping into the air between them, something so genuine and important that it feels odd to have forgotten about it. Aia blinks, her words catching at the back of her throat. 

“I will.” She squares her shoulders with the satchel full and her head unusually clear. “I promise. I'll bring back some dragon scales for you as well. You'll earn a fortune.”

Angeline chuckles under her breath, a quiet, sad kind of sound as her hand comes up to stroke Aia's cheek. Quickly, almost too quickly for her to notice. A half-secret gesture in their half-secret friendship. “Gods be with you, child.”

Out on the training grounds, nothing has come to a halt even if the truce has encompassed them all in a sense of deceptive calmness. There are a few archers practising untiringly to the sound of Captain Aldis's voice and a group of guards appear to bicker good-naturedly with some new recruits that Aia barely recalls having seen before. Every recruit looks so young in her eyes. So fresh, untested, innocent. If she blinks, she can almost imagine she sees a shadow of herself among them – a younger self, thinner and paler, angrier. _It is not so bad,_ she tries to console that shade of the past, but it never listens. 

Along the wall of the keep's main building she spots Hadvar. He looks up when he hears her approaching, a smile appearing on his face. 

“I heard about your plan.” Hadvar gives her a curious glance; he's bent over a pile of swords that he's working on with half-hearted dedication and questionable skill. She wonders why a legionnaire of his rank is doing that, but decides not to ask. Sometimes you merely need something to occupy your thoughts and keep your hands moving. _I need to feel steel and oil between my fingers,_ another soldier from another life says in her head. _Or I'll go bloody mad._

“Word travels fast,” she says tiredly, leaning against the fortress wall. 

“Especially words about you, Dragonborn.” 

He rises to stand in front of her, leaving the swords on the ground. This – the pattern of nights like this, of simple conversations and habitual bickering flowing between them – is an occupation, too. She rarely forms friendships but this might be just that. The insight feels warm, welcome. 

“Did you come to say goodbye?”

Aia shakes her head. “No goodbyes.”

Hadvar takes a step closer and before she knows it she feels the weight of his hand on her shoulder, feels his curled fingers crushing the leather; she lifts her gaze to his face, the open expression that is so honest, so without pretence. A good, simple man, she thinks. For half a heartbeat she wonders if she wants to kiss him, if that's what it is. They could slip away somewhere tonight, she could let his warm skin distract the cold in her. It kills the time, this ancient ritual among brothers and sisters in arms and she could fare much worse. 

Then something else spins into view, altering the scene in the corner of her eye where she can spot Captain Aldis speaking to General Tullius – they both look in her direction, and she becomes increasingly aware of the hand still resting on her shoulder. 

“Well, if anyone can go to Sovngarde and return, it's you,” Hadvar says. He's standing very close to her. Aia can feel the heat of his body near her own, all but _clashing_ against it. 

There's an expectant edge to his smile; she notices it as she steps away and knows that they will go nowhere together, warm skin be damned. Good, simple men often see a long winding future where she merely sees need and practicalities. 

“That is the plan,” she says levelly. In the corner of her eye she sees the blur of the others, of General Tullius giving orders that appear to require instant action, of the small body of soldiers leaving the training grounds as one, the _yes, sir, immediately sir_ almost spelled out in the air above their heads. 

Her fellow soldier mere inches away does not relent, however and he appears oblivious to the rest of the keep's population. It's common among the more seasoned legionnaires to be able to shut out the noise of a whole army full of kin. To her, it seems utterly unachievable. 

“You headed to the temple or the Winking Skeever tonight?” 

“Neither.” Aia looks over Hadvar's shoulder. “I need a word with the general.”

“Oh.” He shrugs - a gesture that seems to be directed inwards, as if trying to rid himself of a thought. “Good luck then. See you soon.”

She offers him a smile and for a moment she regrets the things they won't do, or at least the inherit comfort in them. There is precious little comfort in her life at present. 

“Keep counting,” she says. “And remember that a dragon is worth at least fifty Stormcloaks.” 

Hadvar's low chuckle lingers in her ears as she walks away from him. 

When she has crossed the grounds in a slow stride – almost hesitant, her body fully aware that this is her last stop for the night, the last mark on her map before that final one come dawn – the general is waiting for her. They exchange nods – brief, mute, full of unspoken agreements – and within seconds they are left alone. 

Aia braces herself. It's a peculiar plan to account for, a strange tale to tell a man who has served the Empire longer than she has been alive, served it though strategy and cunning. Yet she does. General Tullius listens wordlessly until she has finished; the corners of his mouth twitch as she speaks the last word of what tomorrow's journey will amount to. 

“Don't bother with sending my remains back to Cyrodiil.” Her words taste of the recent past, sending a small shudder along her spine. Helgen again, a flash of fury in her blood. It is sad for a life to be wasted, it is sadder still when it goes unmourned. “There's no one to send them to.”

General Tullius gives her a long, searching glance. For a moment he looks like he's about to ask her something, but he remains quiet. 

“Are you a man of faith, sir?” she asks when neither of them has spoken for a long while. They walk together up the stairs and along the crenellations where you can see much of the keep. The stars are out, Aia notices as she glances sideways at her general; his cropped grey hair looks silvery in the distant light from the skies. 

“No battle is won through faith or honour, for that matter.” It's the expected answer and the fact that she had been able to predict it makes them feel closer somehow, more familiar. “Only fools expect it.”

She tilts her head back, a brand new memory of herself in quiet contemplation in front of a shrine, asking for guidance, for endurance. It's what generation after generation have hoped for, she knows, wishing the strength of the Divines would settle into their flesh, their moral bodies. Unsurprisingly she feels particularly mortal this evening and had done so the night before as well, when she had slipped into the temple. But she has never held much hope for the Divines and somehow it's reassuring to know that this man by her side does not either. 

“You are our best hope, auxiliary,” he says as if he can see her thoughts spelled out. 

The words - their weight and impact, their echoes - are the same as the words people give her every day. Sentences falling on her shoulders, dragging her towards the ground. But his words are slanted differently, reaching her from another direction: it's a statement, not a burden. 

_So are you_ , she thinks but doesn't say it. He would question her intention behind such a comment, would think she is trying to wriggle out of her duty. No one flatters a general without looking for favours. The realisation makes her smile to herself, before her eyes dart to his again. 

“I will return as soon as I can,” she says. 

The general nods. She wonders if he believes her but she decides not to outstay her welcome, or even long enough to get his doubts about her confirmed. 

“Auxiliary?” She pauses mid-step, catching his gaze as she looks over her shoulder. “Watch yourself.”

The scenery underneath the soles of her boots as she walks down the stairs, the soldiers milling about, restless and eager. Their breaths are hot in the chilly air and Aia opens herself to it, to their rhythm that has so quickly become her own. There is purpose in this life; there is a direction, a sense of obligation and expectation that she hasn't felt since she was a child and surrounded by family, imperfect as that family had been. 

She memorises it all, anchors herself bit by bit, image by image, in this city that has welcomed her and will await her return. When she stands on the training grounds again, she spots General Tullius up on the crenellations and through the dusk and the distance, their eyes meet. Aia lowers her gaze first. 

_Watch the skies, General._


	7. Skyrim's staunch protectors

The guards stationed at Castle Dour serve as a poor protection against the citizens of this city. 

If he cared more for his personal safety or thought more highly of the rebellion, he would likely find it a reason to worry. As it stands, however, he is certain no stray assassin or mead-filled Nord on a quest for honour would get past Rikke so when he hears the unmistakable sound of intruders, he barely looks up from his work. 

“...blood full of frostbite venom and Oblivion knows what else... you tell your general that unless he grants this girl some rest at this very moment he will have to bury her before his war is over.” 

It's an old woman's creaking voice, subtle in that fashion old women favour. They may present themselves as fragile but when war comes, Tullius knows, they are the ones blocking the roads, spitting on the captains and generals for taking away their children. Men resort to drinking, women to fury. City after city, swarming with mothers and wives. _Damn you all to Oblivion._ Far back in his memory his own mothers stands in front of him, arms folded across her chest and her eyes quietly burning. _You are my only son._ He doesn't remember what he had said to her; it is entirely possibly he had said nothing. Come Hearthfire the following year, just before he earned his first promotion, she had succumbed to illness. 

Pushing aside that needless sentimental journey into his past, he shakes his head and returns his attention to the conversation. 

“She is recovering?” Rikke's voice is clear and strong. In twenty years time she, too, will be an old woman, though Tullius is willing to bet that she will see no reason to mask her strength in any way.

“You care only for your wars,” the old lady retorts, then footfall and chairs scraping across the floor breaks into her stream of words and Tullius cannot hear the rest of her sentence but he catches the words _heartless military man_ and _death_ which seems to be the gist of the matter. It usually is. 

Civilians never understand war because war has a logic that is too brutal to fully grasp for anyone who has not made it their cause. It's in a nation's best interest if its citizens leave battle in the hands of trained military – a simple truth he hopes against hope that these damn Nords will understand at some point. Probably not until they've brought their own hopeless country to ruin. 

“I take it you heard our visitor's message, sir.” Rikke walks into the room without preamble. 

“It was hard not to.”

“Yes.” His legate snorts, a half-hearted, soft sound. Her soft spots are ever predictable.“It seems the Dragonborn's battle went well, all things considered. I gather she will be back in our ranks shortly.”

Tullius looks up at her. 

“Good,” he says, putting down his quill and reaching for a piece of bread. “Then we can finally attend to the reality of this so called civil war.”

Not at this very moment, however. First there are several matters to handle. Most importantly is the not at all small matter of Riften. He will have to await correspondence, intelligence and supplies for their new stronghold before he can act in a strategically sound manner; the inactivity is a frustration, dull note in his head. 

Patience has never been among his scarce collection of virtues and this country is beginning to wear what little he once had down to nothing. If he ever wishes to frustrate himself to an early death he will only need to look at a map of Skyrim's regions and try to imagine these regions going to war. Without the Legion's plentiful aid, most of the holds are sheer nightmares from a strategic point of view: lightly defended, poorly manned, their armies made-up of farmers and blacksmiths with their inbred distrust of everything not originating from within their own borders. 

Skyrim will be his last location as military governor. That has been made abundantly clear over the course of the past year – regardless of the outcome here and now, the Empire will likely station him here indefinitely, the way the Empire does away with ageing generals. _You are too old for the front lines, Tullius._

Skyrim will damn him, he thinks at times when he's near sleep and tired beyond reason. For all its senseless politics and rebelling peasants, Skyrim will be his _judge_. A man could hate a country for less. 

 

*

 

The following day the auxiliary herself stands in his war room again, looking less on the verge of death than the old woman nursing her had given them the impression of. 

She looks downright _awful_ , pale as a Dragur and with fresh depths of pain and experience in her eyes, but she is definitely full of the same stubborn life as she had been on the evening before her journey to Whiterun. This land might constantly temper her spirit but it has not yet broken it. Tullius is surprised to find himself slightly relieved by this notion. 

“What caused that?” he asks, nodding at her. She sees it as an invitation to sit down, as usual. He wonders once more if her lack of manners is deliberate or merely a consequence of bad upbringing but it doesn't vex him nearly enough to delve any further into the matter. Besides, wars aren't won by well-behaved soldiers and she's earned the right to be more troublesome than his common recruits. 

“I had a quick run-in with a nest of frostbite spiders,” the auxiliary replies, leaning back in the chair she has claimed for herself. When she tilts her head to the side he spots bright red claw-marks on her neck. “And a few sabre cats. This was after I had climbed down from the Throat of the World. I was too tired to be careful.”

Trust this woman to be mostly unscathed after fighting dragons on a mythical mountain but nearly crumble when exposed to the natural wild life of Skyrim. He still remembers her standing in the burning remains of a dragon, still sees the glowing membrane around her body as she stood there like the figure of legend they claim she is. 

The figure of legend she is, he corrects himself. 

The daylight that's spilling in through the windows and open doors lights the contours of her bruised face and cracked lips. Now more than ever she lacks the innocence of beauty, Tullius thinks. He has never doubted her less or been more willing to shift some of the responsibility for the future of their realm onto her broad shoulders. She's improbable, _impossible_. Tullius observes her for a moment longer. Battered and sore though she is, horribly clad like a Nord in belted tunic and leather trousers and with the distinct promise of a new scar right across her face, she still appears younger to him than ever before. That, too, seems impossible. For over thirty years he has closely observed Imperial legionnaires – legates and captains, recruits and generals – but he has never met her like and can't easily place her among his categories and confinements. 

She stands out in every crowd, in every way. He might as well give up on his attempts at treating her like the ordinary soldier she still remains in his strict hierarchy. 

There's a smirk playing on her lips, as though she's interpreted his thoughts. 

A symbol and a remarkable fighter she's his strongest asset in this war, which they both know, but she is surprisingly decent about it. The Divines know there are a lot of people who would use this advantage for personal gain but as far as Tullius is aware the auxiliary has asked for very little beyond the usual coin. 

She's honourable, Rikke had said after their long journey to the Greybeards. 

Honour doesn't put down this rebellion, Tullius had replied but he has to give Rikke right in this matter. The Dragonborn carries herself with rare honour and a great portion of personal integrity. Unlike most sellswords he's run across in his lifetime she has proven to them that she can be as unselfish as the Imperial Legion requires. 

“What happens now, sir?” Her eyes are bright, though he cannot say if it's the effect of potions or a lust for further battle that causes it. 

“We need to secure our position in the Rift,” he says. “Before we can march on Windhelm without worrying about our rear guard.”

The auxiliary looks thoughtful. “Riften is Imperial territory now.” 

“I've sent a legate there to oversee the reinforcements,” he says, thinking that reinforcements is a damn generous term for the degrading scraps he's finally been offered. “Until I hear from her I hardly consider the city ours.”

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “So we wait?”

“We wait,” he confirms. “You rest.”

At this order she gives a quick, easy smile. “Yes, sir.”

 

*

 

There's a thunderstorm passing by the city that evening as Aia joins the legionnaires in the barracks for a meal. A rare visitor in her own ranks, she's grateful for Hadvar's company at the table and for the loud voices and roars of laughter among the rest of them. It fills the spaces in between, making it easier to melt into the crowd. 

Save, of course, for the fact that she is the subject of most of the attention. 

“Ey, Dragonborn, is it true you went to Sovngarde?” 

“Dragonborn, can you show us your shouts?”

In this room, in the middle of this boisterous body of military men and women, her stories sound like an old hag's inane ramblings. Valor and dragons, ancient Nord warriors and myths brought to life. 

“If I hadn't heard you shout myself, I'd call you mad and give you mead to shut you up,” one of the older legionnaires says, raising her tankard. She has a ragged look about her that is comforting somehow. 

Aia grins, though her face feels tired and reluctant. “I'll take that mead anyway.”

The other woman – Rannveig, she remembers, to her own surprise; Rann to some of her fellow soldiers – grabs a bottle of Honningbrew Mead and puts it front of Aia, nodding. 

_As close as kinsmen,_ she thinks to herself. It's what her father used to say about military comradeship, a phrase tied in with his usual sermons about self-sacrifice and nobility. All her life she has grieved that inability in herself, the distance between her and the rest of the world that seems to be written on her skin, carved into her bones. There's a homelessness in it, leaving her more weary for every year. Her own, private defeat. _You're made of stone,_ a man's voice snarls in her memory, a man's voice in a man's body, pushing away from her in a bed she had come to loathe. 

“You're from the Imperial City, Dragonborn?” 

“Yes.” Her hesitation is as brief as a quick inhale. “I am.”

She straightens up, reaches for the bottle. Every part of her still hurts - in fact it now hurts even worse than it had when she parted ways with her dragon companion. On the third day the bruises come out, she knows from long experience. It always holds true. Aia half-suspects there are currently more blue-red stretches of skin on her body than there are light brown ones. Mere coincidence and sheer luck had kept her from death, of this she is certain. She's not even aware of how she had arrived in Solitude this time. There's a vague recollection of Lydia's harsh concern – _sit down before you fall down_ – and a warm horseback beneath her, so different from dragon scales. Angelina tells her Lydia had escorted her to the city gates but left again before Aia had come to. _You slept for two days and two nights, child._

“What's it like?”

“The Imperial City?” Aia takes a large swig of the mead, allowing the sweet taste to spread in her mouth and down her throat. 

“Aye,” Rannveig nods, expectant. 

Aia wonders if she is expected to speak with longing or nostalgia the way one speaks of home. This year she has learned a lot about home by listening to the Nords, the passion in their voices, the strength in their words. Her own feelings for Cyrodiil are bleak and hollow in comparison.

“It's massive.” At least this is no lie. “Diverse.”

Corrupt, declining, _despairing_. But beautiful, all the same. It's a city with enough room for both the highest forms of art and the lowest form of corruption. 

“You miss it?”

How does one miss a prison? She shakes her head, attempting a carefree shrug that feels like a twitch in her body. “No.”

Rannveig looks at her, scrutinizes her, but says nothing else. 

For a little while, the sprawling collection of conversations leave Aia alone and she takes the opportunity to reach for another sweetroll and a refill of her alto wine, trying to sit back and listen for a change. Her nerves refuse to relent, however; her mind is running in wide circles, ever wakeful and ready to plot an escape route. From what, she is not sure. 

_Kinsmen_ , she thinks again, trying to force her mind to adopt the word, to understand its meaning. But it feels as foreign in her thoughts as she is in this company. 

The barracks bears an unpleasant stench. Much like the rest of the country it smells of mead and dogs and unwashed men; every time she has an errand inside she catches herself developing a fondness for Castle Dour for it cleanness and faint traces of Cyrodiil soap. The thought makes her smile to herself and turn her head to the right, to listen to a drunken debate about their superiors. 

“...sending me to bloody Riften come daybreak,” a woman says, downing her mug of ale. “I've told you before, the general doesn't _like_ me.”

“Nah. He's a grumpy old bastard but he's fair with the coin and the promotions,” Rannveig cuts in. “Doesn't suffer brown-nosing or fools.” 

“Legate Rikke is the one who'll make you lick the damn floors of these barracks if you fail.” A red-faced man looks like he's about to fall off his chair. 

“Aye.” One of the soldiers at the far end of the table makes an approving sound. “She's a fine woman, though. I like them best when they're rough beasts to be conquered.”

“Careful there, Erikur, she'll hear you.” 

A couple of people laugh, loudly. Aia looks down at her hands on the table, attempting to count all the new scars and scratches on them. 

“You look exhausted.” Hadvar returns to his seat beside her, some time later when she has had even more wine and begins to wonder how she will find her way back to Angela's house. 

“That would be because I am exhausted.” Aia stretches out, clenching and unclenching her swordhand that responds with a loud cracking. It feels like she's performed some sort of duty tonight and perhaps she has. _They are all but whelps, they need their heroes as much as they need training._ When she had returned to General Tullius with that jagged crown in her hands, that was what Captain Aldis had told her, in a low voice just outside the training grounds. “I think I've had enough feasting for a lifetime.”

It's not an exaggeration though a part of her wishes it was. 

Outside, the night calms her. The city softens at night and only the bright splinters of light from The Winking Skeever and the torches on the walls break the mask of darkness. The thunder has left them with a brand new sky full of stars and she has the brief desire to count them, check if they're still the same as she remembers.

Outside, she takes deep breaths, filling her lungs with fresh air. 

_This is not the last of what you will write upon the currents of Time,_ the ancient dragon echoes in her head. 

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, she can taste hope in those words.


	8. But this land is ours

The war draws nearer, approaching like clouds.

The general can call it whatever he wants – rebellion, treason, _a fool's damn uproar_ – and the thanes can insist that it's a conflict for jarls and generals. It matters very little which words they use because restless Stormcloak sympathizers are marching on remote villages and rumours spread, talking about both victories and defeats in the countryside while the cities grow harder, closing in on their own borders.

Aia rides to Whiterun, carrying the message of war and she returns there only to find its people tight-jawed and stone-faced, awaiting the storm to break out above their heads.

It's a new, unfamiliar pain to watch them.

“This war is as stupid as a drunken Battle-Born,” a serving girl at the Bannered Mare says when Aia sits down at a table, ordering rabbit stew for her hunger and ale for the cold. “You can tell _that_ to your general.”

Aia stares at the window behind the other woman, thinks of Castle Dour and its army. “He hasn't started any war.”

“Perhaps.” The girl looks at her for a long time, as though evaluating Aia's statement. Then she sighs. “The Stormcloaks... they're our _people_. Our brothers and sisters. Our family. Ulfric may be a traitor to the Empire but the ones following him, they don't deserve to die.”

“I know,” Aia replies, softly.

Inside Castle Dour this is a lot simpler. The unspoken knowledge that flows between them there: the Thalmor intervention, the old dossiers she's found and given to General Tullius, the history between the Blades and the Dominion, the whole arch of intricate, complicated threads running in and out of their lives. Skyrim is important to the Empire, its people a natural part of it by now despite their best attempts at resisting and despite imperial officers' taciturn complaints. The general may appear callous but the fact remains that he wants a swift and definite end to the bloodshed to decrease the losses. Because she had come to realise this, she had sworn her oath and taken up her sword in the name of the Emperor. There's nothing else to it. There is no secret Imperial conspiracy urging blood and death.

But for the guards outside Whiterun or the serving girl carrying a tray of food to Aia's table, none of this matters because they are killing their brothers and sisters.

 

*

 

It seems like an odd message to carry, this axe that signals war.

Around her the land grows colder, hardens under the rain and snow, and seems to almost want to shut her out. It's a tiresome journey. She is footsore and weary before she has made it half-way and her supplies run out at a speed she hasn't counted on. Whiterun, at least, had offered her warmth and familiarity; there will be no such welcome where she is going now and the road there is long. 

“You shouldn't enter Windhelm at night,” a legionnaire warns her when she has less than half a day's journey left. He has the accent and appearance of a Breton. “They say the Stormcloaks ambush people outside the city gates.”

“Eastmarch Imperial camp is just up that hill,” another soldier adds. “We always have room for one more. You're the Dragonborn, aren't you?”

Word spreads fast, travels wide and far. She wonders when she will get used to it.

”Yes.”

”Damn.” 

_Yes_. Though it’s rather less remarkable when you’re covered in ashes and burnt bones and have dragon scales piercing your skin and feel that familiar rush of energy wear off, fade out into nausea. Or when you wake up in the night, carrying the fear and fire from a too-vivid dream like a burden you cannot shed. That’s a part of it that she keeps under wraps. It’s likely for the best. 

The Imperial camp is small, merely a handful of tents placed in the direct cover from a steep hill and a thick patch of trees. She’s been to many of these, lately. They begin to form a pattern of _habit_ in her mind, a form of life. 

That evening they form an unbroken circle of frozen, hungry soldiers in front of the fireplace. 

”I just wish this damn fighting would be over soon,” the legionnaire to her right mutters into the flames. “I was going back to Bruma when Ulfric went and killed the High King.” 

The others hum and nod, a collective murmur of agreement. 

“We’ve a third child on the way,” the Breton says. “I’m going to ask to be stationed in Solitude when this is over.”

The rest of the legionnaires nod, a sense of understanding and mutuality spreading between them as they all watch the fire dance against the dark-blue sky. That’s why they fight, Aia realises all of a sudden. That is why anyone ever _fights_. For family, for their homes, for the quiet times ahead when the battles are done and you are allowed to rest. A few are in it for the fight itself of course – a few others _think_ they are – but the heart of it, the core of every army is made up of those who merely want to make it out alive.

There's an odd loneliness in that thought when it lands in her, a sense of loss despite having nothing to lose. 

“You got any family, Dragonborn?”

Aia shakes her head; she's reluctant to let her gaze leave the flames. “Not any more.”

“You should have kids.” The Breton reaches for his sword to sheathe it. “Buy a house. Settle down somewhere.”

“It helps,” a third soldier agrees, making a gesture that seems to be intended to encompass the entire camp. “Makes all of this easier.”

As a girl all she had ever wanted was a library. There had been ideas of houses, too, but a house in her mind was mostly a place for books and learning, for long hours of uninterrupted studying and solitude. It feels like another life, another woman's dreams. 

“You're still young enough for it.”

She shrugs, attempting a carefree smile. “Perhaps.”

On her bedroll that night, she tosses and turns aimlessly, trying to catch a sleep that keeps eluding her. It's chilly no matter how well she has dressed for the occasion, tucked into several pelts and blankets. The wind makes noise outside her shelter, occasionally raging through the air, stirring dry leaves and trying to unpick her ponytail even as she's lying down. _You will never get used to the cold here, it cuts to the bone,_ someone had told her many months ago when she was huddled close to a fire, teeth clenched. _A tankard of mead and a man to keep you warm,_ another someone - a Nord - had suggested, laughing. _It’s the only way, Imperial._  
There is some comfort in the sound rising from the legionnaires keeping watch, at least. A distant kind of company. 

_You're different, aren't you? Not like anyone else?_ A kid in Morthal had asked her that once, with childlike certainty, as she had showed him her sword and he had offered her a bowl of freshly picked snowberries in return. 

It's the dream of many children to be different, to stand out. With age it loses its appeal. 

She thinks about Morthal when she turns on the ground, cursing the cold and the stones of the earth that prickle every muscle in her back with tiny jolts of pain at every motion. Morthal and the mountains and its dragons; she thinks about all the jarls and guards in every village and city she has passed through, thinks about their resistance and their determination. Whether it's a determination to fight, to be loyal to the Empire or to remain a neutral party in an ever-growing conflict, Aia has stood face to face with plenty of tight-jawed, proud Nords over the past months. 

Several inches away from her bedroll the axe stands propped up against her pack and semi-wrapped in cloth. Its metal body shines, glimmering like the moon but without the moon's promise of a new day. 

When she was a girl she would practice writing on every surface she could find, obsessively chasing after a language of her own. She'd write on windows, on her father's sword, on the ground, on the mirror her mother had left behind. She wrote her name with her fingers, erased it with an exhale. Wrote it again, erased it, wrote it yet another time.

It was a great delight and comfort to her that it could so easily be regretted.

It is too late for regrets now and the axe she carries holds no promise of anything but more death. 

 

*

 

During times like these Tullius envies Rikke's ability to sleep soundly no matter what disturbance that stands in their way. There's almost something magical about how she can go from restlessly pacing his war room, turning over one troublesome thought after the other and then on cue, as though something shifts inside her, she bids him a good night and goes to bed.

And sleeps, he presumes.

He's never been a man who grants himself much rest and it appears this is a habit that he cannot break himself of; the fact is that it only becomes harder the older he gets to fall - and remain – asleep.

Tonight he keeps himself occupied in the quiet castle by going over the dossiers the auxiliary had given him a while ago. Thalmor intelligence, scattered notes on perceived enemies and old stories from a war that has never been forgotten - his desk is barely visible through all the paraphernalia of the past. Much like this damn country, he concludes with a sneer as his gaze falls on one of the books on his end table: _Frontier, Conquest and Accommodation: A social history of Cyrodiil._

Most soldiers miss something. It’s a detail intricately woven into military life to be longing for something else: warm meals, comfortable beds, the company of someone who doesn’t merely see you as currency of war, someone to whom you are not _expendable._

Tullius has no family to miss so in its place he misses the reason of the Imperial City and the neutral comfort of Imperial law.  
Of course it's flawed. The Empire is far from perfection and much of its former grandiosity has vanished and darkened, but at the heart of it there's a different kind of core than the one running through Skyrim and its people. It’s a difference in virtues, in culture, in the way citizens consider themselves and each other and he finds that he longs for it now. Imperial soldiers differ from Nord soldiers and no training or directives in the world can change that. 

He wonders how the auxiliary – the Dragonborn, he corrects himself - is faring on her journey to Whiterun. There's a slight discomfort at the back of his mind, a knowledge of her importance that is increasingly difficult to ignore as the war presses on. 

She is valuable, far more so than most high-ranking officers in the Imperial army, far more so than either Rikke or Tullius fully admit, even to each other. 

There is tremendous danger in placing too much faith in one individual, he knows, however exceptional her gifts. 

Tullius stretches his legs in his chair, leaning forward across the table to grab one of the more recent reports she's left him, outlining the illegal trade from Riften. A fine judge of character and an astute observer, she had warned him about Riften already on the way back from the Greybeards and now that Tullius has had a chance to investigate the city himself, he is prone to agree with her every statement. 

There is something amiss in the city, something that spreads around the city border and crosses all lines between thieves and jarls. They have replaced the authorities but corruption runs deep, breeds a particular sort of distrust that's near impossible to quell even among more sensible people than the Nords.

Once this is over and Ulfric's head has left his body, Tullius will need to pay Riften a personal visit.

He empties his wine cup and leans back, shrugging to ease the tension in his shoulders. The downside to sleeping badly is creeping up on him more than usual as of late and Skyrim's climate does nothing to help. 

“Sir?” Rikke's voice interrupts his thoughts and he turns his head only to find her standing behind him, still fully dressed and holding a note in her hand. “A messenger arrived.”

With a nod, Tullius gets to his feet to read the note that says precisely what they had predicted any note carried from Whiterun would tell them. The Empire may be in shambles but tradition and obligation are stronger than the lust for foolish uproar. Whiterun stands with the Emperor. 

“Jarl Balgruf will send the auxiliary directly to Windhelm, of course.” 

When he speaks the words, their impact lands heavy in his mind. 

Rikke pales a little, beginning to pacing the floor. “Ulfric may be mad, but he still has honour. He wants a fair fight, not a bloody murder.”

_Let us ask King Torygg about that._

“You will have to excuse me if I don't put any stock in the honour of a usurper and a damn traitor,” Tullius says.

He says it tiredly, looking down at his maps again to force his strategic thinking to set in despite the late hour. There's a harsh brand of weariness in him tonight, a dull sense of dread. The high king had been nothing but a figurehead and a weak leader but he had been important, if only in name and Ulfric knows the importance of names better than most people. It is anyone's speculation what a man like Ulfric may or may not do to a Dragonborn. 

Rikke gives him a long, stern glance. “I should go to Whiterun, sir.”

“Not yet.” 

“Sir-”

_“Legate,_ ” he cuts her off, well aware of how this infuriates her. There is no time to argue tonight and within a few moments Rikke, too, will understand his reasons, regret her protests. He simply does not have the patience nor the luxury to wait for that to happen. Not tonight. 

He sends someone in her place - legate Cipius and a large detachment of troops – and then they wait out the rest of the hours of night time together, Rikke silent and seated in a corner of the war room, Tullius bent over his dossiers until his neck aches with such fervour that he finally goes to bed some time at dawn.

Tomorrow is another battle. 

 

*

 

The courier from Whiterun arrives in the middle of the night two days later. True to his habits, Tullius is awake and in the midst of going through recent correspondence when the young man enters Castle Dour, out of breath and with an air of self-important duty. In a war even couriers feel their own importance. 

As Tullius reads the message, Rikke enters the room while fastening the last pieces of her shoulder pads. She wears a steely expression on her face; these past few nights have aged her several years.

They have both already guessed the meaning of the words that trail away into the dusk of the room, long before he opens the letter. 

“Ulfric is marching on Whiterun,” Tullius says, all the same. “The Jarl thinks he plans on taking the city with the walls intact.”

“Catapults and fire?” Rikke clears her throat, shedding the last remnants of sleep. “Predictable.”

”He’s certainly no strategist.” 

He makes the words come out as an insult though he has long ago stopped believing strategy alone can lead to victory. There is, unfortunately, something to be said for the kind of passionate foolishness Ulfric Stormcloak and his likes possesses. Civilians are stirred not by practicality but by speeches and do not realise that the more pompous the words are, the weaker the damn cause behind them is. 

“He's confident enough for three strategists,” the legate says, sounding exhausted, too.   
For a long while they don't speak; they merely look at each other over the table that is still buried in Skyrim's past. The candles flicker faintly, casting short shadows across coast land and mountains. 

Eventually Tullius nods his consent to the unspoken question between them; he knows Rikke has been waiting for it in silence. 

“Go to Whiterun,” he says and his legate is on her way before he has time to add anything else.


	9. Children of Skyrim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *digs up ancient unfinished fic*
> 
> I've been dragged back into this universe by Elder Scrolls Online and decided it was time I actually finished this old WIP of mine, too. This chapter is already posted to FFNet but hasn't been posted here for some reason. So it shall mark my return to Aia and Tullius, I dare hope.
> 
> ****

Whiterun is burning.

It shouldn't be a surprise after her frenzied journey back from Windhelm where the righteous warriors of the North speak of honour and battle glory like others speak of the divines, though somehow Aia had not quite expected to return to a city already under siege.

“The Stormcloaks have been waiting out in the countryside for several days already,” they tell her in Dragonsreach as she confirms what Jarl Balgruuf knew the moment he gave her the axe.

Aia realises, of course, that they have been preparing to take the city long before the letters between General Tullius and the jarl have solidified Whiterun's loyalty to the Emperor. That they have been waiting a long time for their prey, sneaking around the city borders like a pack of sabre cats.  _ So much for honour. _

“Actually, sir,” a nervous-sounding legionnaire points out with the voice of someone who does not desire to carry the message. “They are on the move now. Soon they will have reached the barricades.”

Within a few moments, Dragonsreach has been emptied of all capable warriors and Aia runs down the many steps with guards behind her and Irileth in front of her.

This, she thinks briefly, is what war feels like.

The blade feels cool in her hands, soothing ice against the burning buildings around her and the terrified screams of the civilians running in criss-cross patterns around the falling rocks and still-burning wood tumbling from their homes. Some scream the names of their children, others cast scattered prayers to Talos; a few of them are cursing, putting up a fight without weapons and with little prospect of victory.

”Everyone get inside the Jorrvaskr now,” Aia hears one of the senior Companions shout from the stairs leading up to it. “Come on!”

The old mead hall is a building far from the city border, resting deep within the Wind district, yet Aia can’t feel particularly convinced that it won’t fall, too. The stench of smoke in the air makes every scrap of hope hard to cling to, the screams and battle cries dissolve most of her conviction that this had been the right choice, after all.

As though there  _ is  _ a right choice.

_ What harm is there in letting a few legionnaires die instead of our own people? _ Proventus' rhetorical question hangs unspoken in her memory, like a dark shade. 

Ulfric is towering in there, too, arms folded across his broad chest as he stares down at her from his throne in Windhelm.  _ We're tired of bleeding for an Empire that won't bleed for us. _

_ Blood,  _ she thinks as her fingers tighten around the hilt of her best blade.  _ It's always about blood. _

The crowd confuses her. Even now, after several battles in the company of others she hesitates,  _ startles;  _ she's so used to her own sword being the sole weapon and her own body the only concern that it feels foreign to run in this odd pattern, to fight in a formation, a whole set of armours and shields and weapons drawn. 

They run, fast, to the gates and people shout as they pass, some fall down and Aia stops to help them up at first but quickly she learns that it’s no use, that it won’t help. The only thing that will aid them in any way is reaching the attacking invaders. There's no time to stay and mourn the collapsing city.

Down by the main gate where Legate Rikke gives the gathered soldiers orders and motivation, Aia notices that the whole frozen, infertile field down below bathes in fog and smoke, rendering the approaching rebels ghost-like. It is resembling a sentimental painting of war: grey heavy strokes, rain, darkness, and sharp blades that meet somewhere over it all. 

“Everyone with me!” Rikke shouts. “For the Emperor! For the Legion!”

Aia fights with a thousand battles in her body and the memory of Sovngarde at the edges of her mind. She has grown into a warrior in this country; Skyrim has taught her the way one must dance around an enemy, the pattern in which one must lift and retract one's sword, the price of both victory and loss.

They fail to hold the barricades but the fight is over before the Stormcloaks has reached the gates, regardless. They are too few, too disorganised, to take a city like Whiterun and Aia thinks as she passes dead bodies and dying soldiers curled up around their own defeat, that they must have known this even as they travelled here.

As the Jarl thanks them all, safe inside the city gates again, she looks at the sky. A smoky light flutters across the horizon that appears strained in the cold night, as though its ropes are about to snap.

  
  
  
**

  
  


That night, Jorrvaskr is a temporary home to many of them.

Ysolda, Hulda and Mikael carry food from the Bannered Mare where one of the walls has caved in but the rest of the building stands after the guards have put out the fire. By the fire, Rikke orders a couple of soldiers to help serve food and ale to the civilians and another few to search the city for the last few inhabitants that have not yet been counted among the survivors.

Hadvar slumps down at the table where Aia already sits, warming her cold, slightly aching hands on a bowl of potato soup.

“You made it!” He grins. His face is still streaked with ash and blood and sweat. “I was sure I'd find you face down in the mud.”

“I'd never give you the satisfaction,” Aia replies, taking a spoonful of soup. It warms her up from the inside and she almost groans with the pleasure of _thawing_ , slowly but surely.

“Ha!” Hadvar reaches for a bowl that is held out for him and they eat in silence, watching the room bustle with people. With _survivors_ , Aia reminds herself. There are, by all accounts, many survivors gathered around these tables and in these halls. Men, women and children holding on to each other, exchanging these habitual phrase and sounds that can sound so empty but aren't, not a night like this one.

Later, as the noise fades out, Aia curls up as close to the fire as she dares, sleeping heavily and dreaming of fire and ashes burning away the cold.

  
  
  


**

  
  
  


There's commotion in Castle Dour when she finally reaches it a few days later.

Just outside the war room where she had expected to see General Tullius she instead spots an unknown Breton who's wrapped in a fur coat and carries an infant in his arms. He looks bewildered, like he hasn't slept in several days. Sometimes, Aia reflects, you can see and  _ smell _ grief just by being near someone.

“There,” a guard says firmly, trying to steer the visitor outside again but he manages to evade and step inside the other room instead.

“You are not allowed in here,” another guard attempts, but before he has caught up with the intruder the General has approached to see what's causing the quarrel.

“You imperial _dogs_!” The man suddenly starts crying, furiously, with the sound of a howling animal. Aia moves closer, curious and sympathetic in equal measures. Tears are rare in this vast war of theirs, it's almost as though they are being saved for something else, something worse though she cannot say for what. “Three children... she has three children.”

General Tullius is not a physically imposing man but standing in front of this Breton, he resembles a Nord, tall and towering; Aia watches his face, the way it remains utterly calm as he studies the other man in his visible discomfort. The only thing that changes is his voice that falls more softly in the room, giving his words different contours than the urgent orders and the clear-cut assessments. He must be used to them, Aia thinks. The ones left behind.

“ We will fight these so-called rebels, I can assure you-”

“I don't care about the bloody Stormcloaks! The dragons can take all of Ulfric's men and all the Imperials for all I care! _Hilda_... ” The Breton shakes his head, defeated, as though he still can't quite believe what he's saying. “I just want her back.”

“The guards will see you out,” the general says and his voice is sterner now, almost cold in its tight composure, but Aia can see he touches the other man's back briefly, a gesture so quick it could appear invisible.

But she sees it.

It slips out of her mind with greater ease the longer she lives in this world of conflict, but days like today, she cannot forget all these minor devastations everywhere; they are nobody's fault, they are the currency of war. Aia had seen it so clearly in Legate Rikke's face as they were leaving Whiterun, crossing fields washed red and black with blood and fire; she had seen that hardness that comes from determination in the face of all these doubts.  _ They are my people, auxiliary. _

She sees it again now, in her general's closed-off expression, in his stern gaze as he turns to the guards that have failed to keep the war from his doorstep. He stands in the midst of all this uproar and lawlessness with the task of steadying them all. It would, Aia supposes, transform anyone to stone.

“ I was under the impression that your job is to guard the castle,” he says sharply to the young man who had tried to oust the visitor from the castle as Aia arrived.

“ Y-yes, sir.”

Tullius waits for a beat, giving his words greater impact when he does speak. It intrigues her how he uses everything he possesses to intimidate and lead, create order and mitigate damage already done. There is steel there, steel and resolution, but nothing in it strikes her as malicious.

“Then why don't you make sure that there are no more civilians running around in here?”

The guards both lower their heads, a collective motion of embarrassment. “Yes, sir.”

When they have left, the general nods towards Legate Adventus who greets him with his usual blank expression that Aia has heard the legionnaires jest about more than once. They say he is a magnificent soldier with a magnificently shallow intellect.

“ Make sure the compensation is raised for that woman's family, Legate.”

“ Will do, sir.”

With that, Tullius returns to the table in his war room, leaning against it for a moment. His hands rest heavily against the wood and as he exhales, Aia can see a weary frown in his face that is promptly smoothed out as she announces her presence by clearing her throat.

He looks directly at her; she holds his gaze for a heartbeat.

“Ah,” the general says and the hard line of his mouth softens noticeably. Aia smiles a little, though it almost feels inappropriate after the scene she just witnessed. “You're back. Good. Sit down.”

“What happened?” she asks, looking at the spot where the grieving man had stood.

Tullius gives her a long glance.

“One of our camps in the Pale was ambushed,” he says after a moment's hesitation and there's a streak of tiredness in his voice that lands somewhere in her chest where it _aches_ , chafes against the images of Whiterun and the ghost-field outside it.

“Oh.”

He shrugs, rubbing his forehead with one hand while the other pushes the map on the table a bit further away as he, too, takes a seat. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he says.

“ Everything about this war is out of the ordinary,” Aia retorts, feeling a sudden pang of anger directed towards everyone and nothing in particular. It's the ghost-field again, the burning houses and Rikke's eyes as they had stepped over dead Nords in the streets.

General Tullius's expression is unreadable as they look at each other again, then he nods, though she isn't certain it's a sign of agreement.

“I heard the battle of Whiterun went very well,” he says instead. “You have done a great deal to help solidify the situation there. Excellent work.”

Now it's Aia's turn to nod. “Thank you.”

“The Empire rewards excellence,” Tullius continues. “And so do I. I'm promoting you to Quaestor. Take this sword as a token of the Legion's appreciation.”

He hands over a blade that has been resting on a bench nearby and Aia looks at it, turns it over a couple of times in her hands; it's finely crafted, a weapon to treat well and maintain properly.

For so long now she has taken jobs where she's found them, been given coin in exchange for her services and been on her way again. While there are people who have awarded her with more personal gifts as tokens of their gratitude, she is unused to being promoted and appreciated in this clear, regulated fashion.

“It's a splendid sword,” she says, a bit needlessly.

“Of course it is.” He sounds vaguely irritated or possibly the slightest bit amused - it's impossible to discern which one of these emotions that runs through his mind as he observes her.

For a while, neither of them speaks and she is struck by the restfulness in it, in lingering here in this room that is anything but calm and peaceful but somehow manages to conjure up these emotions all the same. She could remain in here, hiding from the world.

It is rare, Aia thinks, for her mind to settle and her body not to be in constant flight.

“ Is there anything else?” Tullius asks, reminding her that rest has very little place in their lives at the moment.

He looks up, holding her gaze for a moment as Aia turns the decision over in her head. There is a time for everything and these are days of war, not her private worries. Even so, she lets out a breath and reaches into her pack to find the note she's been holding on to since she snatched it from a dead assassin.

“There's this, sir.”

Tullius stretches out his arm across the table to take the piece of paper; she places it in his hand and sits back, waiting for him to read it. While he does, she observes him in silence, watching the harsh lines in his face shift as his expression goes from the usual composed neutrality to a more serious, almost concerned frown.

“Execution orders from the Justicars,” he mutters.

Aia nods. “They ambushed me north of Whiterun.”

“Unfortunately there is no way to prove this is authentic,” he says, with a tired sigh; he turns the paper over in his hand. The parchment makes a soft, scraping sound as his fingers move over it. Like dried leaves in a bowl.

“The assassins were thalmor, at any rate.” Aia had been caught unaware just outside camp, her limbs still half-dormant, her body hollowed out by battle. Before she had drawn her sword, her instinctive th'um had drowned them all in fire, raining down like Ulfric Stormcloak's attempts at taking a city that doesn't belong to him and never will. “Not that this is much, as far as evidence goes.”

“I believe you.”

She tries to mask her surprise, but makes a poor job of it. The general hands back the letter and she lets her gaze run briefly over the words again.

“Do not waste time worrying about these assassins,” he says suddenly. “We will look into it. But for now, I need you for our war.”

“Yes.” Aia nods. “I agree.”

“ Someone like you needs greater flexibility than other soldiers,” her general continues, eyeing her carefully even now, as though he is evaluating something about her. Perhaps he is unconvinced about her focus on the mission now, she thinks. She should not have shown him the letter; though it's too late for regrets, she wishes she had thought better of it beforehand. Gaining General Tullius's trust has proven no easy feat and she is reluctant to have it snatched away from her hands again, after all her efforts. “I believe our next task should be Winterhold. It's in close proximity to Windhelm and will keep Ulfric weary enough to make foolish mistakes.”

“Then I will be there to take advantage of them, sir,” Aia says, almost too-quickly, like a child eager to prove her worth.

And the strangely warm glint of approval in Tullius's eyes tells her it had been the right thing to say.


	10. False front

  
The trail of death fades away immediately outside the cities, drowns in snow and rain and wild animals, shrinks besides the towering mountains in the distance and the depthless waters ahead.  As a child, raised on crowds and chatter, crowded streets and well-lit taverns, Aia had not been able to imagine the inherit solace of the untouched land, the peace in its vast stretches.   
  
At times when they travel the war itself becomes a ghost, a recollection buried deep in someone else’s memory. This is good, Aia convinces herself. It means war has not yet exhausted the land; it means that the land clings to them like flowers holding on to their stems.   
  
It’s not the war that distracts her on her current journey either, it’s the same old grudges of the country that have ravaged it forever. On her way through Skyrim this time, with the General’s last orders to regain the Pale burning at the back of her mind, she is stalled instead by bandit outlaws and dragons.   
  
Recovering - a bundle of shivers wracking her body, the _thu’um_ still shaking within her chest - she leans her forehead against a snowy rock and _breathes_. It stops her thoughts from rushing away from her, anchoring them in the ground below.  
  
 _One, two, three._  
  
Storm voice, Hadvar told her the Nords sometimes call it. The voice of the Dragon, the breath of the storm to come. That is how the war started; that is how the high king of Skyrim fell and Aia cannot make it part of her being, not even after all this time is she able to settle it into her chest, make it a piece of her. Most day a brittle little protest among her thoughts: _it has all been a mistake; it shall pass._  
 _  
_She lights a fire in the calm spot between a wayshrine and some old ruins and sits near it, too close, trying to thaw her feet and she decides that when the Empire has brought peace back to Skyrim, she will pour some of her coin into the project of buying a house. A home. Property.  
  
No longer a fugitive within these borders and she truly ought to belong somewhere, anywhere, _everywhere_.   
  
 _Don’t get your hopes up._  
  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
Darkness breaks into his study somewhere half-way through the pile of reports from Riften.

  
Gerd has brought him his supper - bread and broth and cheese, all of it sorely lacking both in taste and texture but they certainly can’t prioritise cooking at present and it shows - in here and he has worked his way through the afternoon.   
  
Riften. While the nation is at war and one city hardly feels like something a general ought to strategize around, Tullius is convinced this particular city holds secrets that he would do best to uncover. Not only that - Riften is the southernmost and easternmost location in all of Skyrim and its borders are the gates to fates worse than the current war. Or might be.   
  
He rubs his forehead, trying to stretch out the muscles in his back.   
  
_You search for trouble_ , someone tells him in a distant memory. _Look for ghosts in bright daylight._   
  
That might very well hold some truth, but Tullius has not yet failed to keep himself or the Empire safe for the past decades and he has no intention to turn into a careless fool now. If this is his last position and his last chance to serve, he will go out with _distinction_ if nothing else.   
  
Riften will be under scrutiny. For the time being he cannot afford the best resources to be sent there but once the rebellion is quelled and the blood of the land has stilled, he intends to travel there himself.  And since he has other plans for Rikke, he means to bring someone else, someone who has more potential than almost anyone he has met in this frozen nightmare.   
  
The legate he’s currently sent to aid Rikke, the _Dragonborn_.   
  
That plan hinges upon the idea that she will still be alive once the troops are defeated and peace rules once more and Tullius cannot even imagine a scenario in which she won’t. A woman - an Imperial woman at that and he doesn’t even try to conceal the somewhat ridiculous pride in that detail to himself - who defeats dragons will hardly be bested by a crowd of rowdy Nords.   
  
_I won’t allow it_ , he thinks and the thought isn’t as much of a surprise as it perhaps ought to have been.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


 

“You never speak of your past,” Rikke says, unexpectedly, as Aia is invited to spend the night in the well-concealed camp in the Pale, just a day’s journey or so from Dawnstar.  “It's strange; Nords carry their pasts with them. You don't.”  
  
The journey from Solitude has eroded most of her patience; tired arching feet inside the sabatons that feel as though they are made to harden and chafe rather than protect, tired aching heart beneath the breastplate that has been refined according to her tastes and fitted to perfection. But that was long ago now and arrows and the tips of swords rip through the layers, cutting them like a knife cuts warm butter. 

Rikke looks at her, gaze fixed.   
  
Aia inclines her head, not certain if she means it as a gesture of submission or not.  “I find it simpler not to.”

All her life this has been the truth. Aia doesn't talk much; she _listens_.

That is how you get somewhere when you have nothing; that is how you find the new direction in your travels, the next purpose for your sword. Listen to gossip, rumours, drunken slurs and battle-cries. And even more importantly: listen to what people do not tell you to your face but later, behind your back; listen to what people say in the safety of the dark or the privacy of a moment alone, unguarded and unafraid.

Life as a soldier is not meant for holding on to mysteries. The long walks, the vast stretches of time and land covered together as one, the common cause – neither of those things lends itself to secrets or people prone to cling to them. She is a rare soldier, unaccustomed and unwilling but barren of better alternatives.

“So what did you do then?” Legate Rikke asks. Every corner of her voice is harsh tonight, hollowed out by tension and effort, but there’s a depth to her curiosity that feels gentler somehow.

“What did I do when?”

“Don't be foolish.”

She sighs a little. “I walked into a Stormcloak camp.”

“That's all?”

Aia wonders about history, its slippery nature and elusive edges. The way it melts and transforms. As she leans forward, elbows on her knees and a hand trailing across a recent injury on her upper arm, she nods briefly to her companion.   
  
“That's the reason I was captured.”

Rikke gives her a dark glare, visibly dissatisfied with the scraps Aia offers. Aia cannot fault her for it, everyone wants to know what their subordinated soldier is made of, what sort of events that have shaped her, how it has slanted and twisted her soul.   
  
Perhaps it’s because she is exhausted from seeking the shadows, a wounded animal in hiding.   
  
Perhaps it’s because she feels unusually and inexplicably _safe_ in the midst of all this unearthed grief and scattered rebellion, as though the burning land quells her own fires. 

“I fled Cyrodiil,” she admits; it's the first time this truth has escaped her fiercely protected borders against the rest of the world. “I was… somebody’s wife. He... died young. I ran.”  
  
Years have passed since then and she still cannot spell it differently, not even to herself, in her own mind. Somebody’s wife. Yet that is exactly what it was: she was somebody’s wife. She had no husband.   
  
Rikke is silent for a long stretch of time.   
  
“That is difficult,” she says, eventually and matter-of-factly and Aia looks at her, nearly smiling despite it all. “Did he deserve it?”   
  
“Death?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
There’s a flurry of fragments attached to his name, burned into the back of her head, the farthest reaches of her memory where no light ever reaches. A flurry and a _wave_ hitting her like water crashes into the rocks, a little less with each turn. Very soon, perhaps, the sea will have calmed.

“He did,” she admits; Rikke merely nods, then she looks into the fire again and Aia leans against the tree behind her, the cool surface scraping softly against the back of her head. The night is calm around them, darkness sweeps over them like snow.  
  
The trail of death fades away.


End file.
